Sidney's Comet

by Brian Herbert

  That was a lightning stroke on Euripides’s part! she thought, looking away and rubbing her eyes. No committees involved . . . he had to justify it as a Job-Support measure.

  The central area Mayor Nancy Ogg stood upon was in the process of narrowing slowly as work progressed. After Sergeant Rountree left, she overheard another foreman say, “In the final construction stage, the mass driver core itself will be filled with gas compartments, leaving only a tiny corridor beneath.”

  Looking up at the silver-metallic curved ceiling, she thought: The final construction stage will also involve ejection of the worker clients to their deaths in space, followed by automatic connection of the E-Cells to their mass driver engines. It occurred to her that every “stinkin’” cappy should be ejected in space. She scratched the small of her back.

  Mayor Nancy Ogg could see grey tubes and valves through an open forward firewall hatch, knew from a previous inspection that this was the base of a powerful mass driver engine that towered more than one-hundred meters above her.

  Closing her tired eyes, she held the thumb and forefinger of one hand against her forehead. Just a minute! she thought, popping open her eyes. The escapees that were shipped to Saint Michaels . . . could Javik be among them?

  Mayor Nancy Ogg started to roll at high speed toward the exit Sergeant Rountree had just taken, but had a second thought and slowed. No, she thought, answering her own question, It’s not possible.

  * * *

  “Was Onesayer Edward an evil man?” Sayer Superior Lin-Ti asked, gazing across the ordinance room at his group of youngsayermen.

  “He became power-mad, Sayer Superior,” a voice in the back of the room said. “And he murdered our beloved Master.”

  “Yes,” Lin-Ti said, “but Uncle Rosy gave him the knife. And remember, Onesayer Edward waited patiently for nearly three centuries.”

  The youngsayerman did not respond. Lin-Ti saw troubled expressions on the faces of the group. Then Lin-Ti asked: “Would Uncle Rosy have entrusted the Sayerhood helm with an evil man? These are disturbing questions, youngsayers, many of which we cannot answer. . . . ”

  Chapter Twelve

  UP CLOSE WITH PRESIDENT EURIPIDES OGG, FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION

  “There is no more certain way to reach the Happy Shopping Ground than to lose your life in the face of a disintegrating product.”

  Remarks made by President Ogg at Astro-Burial Inc.’s No. 14 Launcher, November 18, 2603

  Wednesday, August 30, 2605

  Master Edward sat on Uncle Rosy’s chair for several hours after setting the Orbital Handle. He lost track of time, and just sat there reviewing three centuries of memories. It was late morning when he finally moto-shoed to the ramp at the rear of the platform and rolled down to a passageway he knew had to lead to the Master’s private suite.

  Master Edward heard only the whine of his own moto-shoes as he negotiated a sharp right turn in the arch-ceilinged black brick passageway. It was cool and damp in there, illuminated dimly by widely spaced yellow globes.

  I feel like an intruder, he thought, shivering. No one has. . . . He interrupted his thought at the sight of a tuxedo meckie a short distance ahead, standing off to one side of an ornate oak door. The meckie’s button lights blinked rhythmically.

  “Greetings, Master,” the meckie said in a sophisticated but mechanical voice. The door slid open as the meckie spoke, and Master Edward saw Uncle Rosy’s suite beyond, shimmering warmly.

  I am Master! he thought happily. Everything is at my command!

  His elation faded quickly, for as Master Edward entered the suite, he recalled his personal aging crisis. Maybe there is something here to explain it, he thought, recalling the terrible spectacle of Sixsayer Robert before he died . . . those deep, terrible wrinkles framing desperate, screaming eyes.

  He paused to look around the suite, found himself in a large light wood paneled living area, with bookshelves on three walls. Reflective solar panels on the walls and ceiling provided the room with cheerful semi-natural light. The furnishings were beige fabrics and light wood, the carpeting soft driftwood grey.

  Nice, Master Edward thought, fingering the smooth linen fabric of his Master’s robe, but simpler than I would have expected.

  An agatestone fireplace dominated one wall, and above the mantel hung a three-dimensional painting of a woman working in an old-style kitchen. Another tuxedo meckie stood near a raised panel door to one side of the fireplace, and the meckie began to blink its button lights when Master Edward looked at it.

  “Greetings, Master,” the meckie said in a voice identical to that of the first tuxedo meckie.

  “And who are you?” Master Edward demanded, taking care to mimic the voice of Uncle Rosy.

  “I have no name, Master.”

  “How do I tell you and the other meckie apart?”

  “There are three of us, Master. You have never felt a need to tell us apart before.”

  Master Edward pursed his lips thoughtfully, said, “Hmmm.” He rolled past a striped beige-and-grey couch at the center of the room, noted a blond wood coffee table in front of it with the words “Keep the Faith” inlaid on the tabletop in dark letters. The memory of Uncle Rosy’s words danced across his consciousness, then flitted away: Look within yourself. . . . There are things even I do not understand. . . .

  Master Edward took a deep, exasperated breath, tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. The ceiling consisted of yellow and black mosaic tiles arranged in a stylized brain design. He chased an elusive thought through the alcoves of his mind, looked away.

  Rolling to a bookcase, he scanned titles: Journal of Holistic Medicine . . . the Einsteinian Phenomenon. . . Another section contained religious books. Other sections were devoted to political, economic and historic readings. He ran inquisitive fingers over the volume covers, glanced briefly through a volume entitled Chairman Mao: His Life and Times.

  After replacing this volume, Master Edward was about to remove another book when his concentration was shattered by a piercing woman’s scream: “Willard!” The voice seemed to come from somewhere near the fireplace, behind Master Edward and to the left. But he saw no one.

  “What the hell?” Master Edward cursed.

  “Willard!” the voice screeched, a little louder this time.

  “Who is that?” Master Edward asked, looking at the tuxedo meckie.

  “Your wife, of course, Master,” the mechanical servant responded, pointing at the picture over the fireplace. “On a simu-life projector.”

  Master Edward’s eyes opened wide as he focused on the painting, because the three-dimensional woman in the picture was glaring directly at him with her hands on her hips. “Willard!” she howled, revealing a very large mouth. “Answer me!”

  “What do I do now?” Master Edward inquired of the meckie.

  “Answer her, Master. You always say, ‘Coming dear.’”

  “Oh yes. It slipped my mind.” Master Edward looked at the scowling woman. She seemed ready to leap out of the picture. “Coming dear!” he yelled. Lowering his voice, he looked at the meckie and asked, “Now what?”

  “Nothing, Master. The simu-life projector yells at you during the day to keep your spirits up.”

  “Oh.”

  The miniature woman seemed placated now, as she tuned her attention to a steaming pot of food on the range. As Master Edward continued to stare at the picture, the moving, lifelike portions stiffened subtly, and once again it appeared to be an ordinary three-dimensional painting.

  “I do not know how that slipped my mind,” Master Edward said, wondering why he needed to explain to a meckie. “Too much going on, I suppose.” Delving into his knowledge of Uncle Rosy’s past, he added: “Jennifer was killed in a rollercoaster accident more than three centuries ago . . . along with my children. . .”

  “Yes, Master. At Glitterland. They are in the Happy Shopping Ground now.”

  Uncle Rosy must have been terribly lonely, Master Edward thought.
No one with whom to share his troubles. . . . Resuming his interest in the books, Master Edward reached for a weathered brown volume entitled Laboratory Experiments of W. R. Rosenbloom, 2261-2266. He blew dust from the top of the volume, opened it slowly. The book smelled of must. Its pages were yellow-edged and cracking.

  Turning the pages carefully, he noticed each sheet was ruled in light green lines, with headings along the top and spaces below where Uncle Rosy had entered dates, techniques and comments concerning each experiment. He scanned the opening pages. All concerned a technique referred to as “S.M.E.”

  I recall those initials, Master Edward thought. Selective Memory Erasure. Uncle Rosy used it on anyone who helped build or design the Black Box of Democracy.

  He read on, saw human subjects listed by consumer identification number on the pages, with a medical malady designated next to each. He located a guide in the back of the volume which connected names and numbers. Where did he get all the volunteers? Master Edward wondered.

  Then he saw a penciled notation next to one name which read, “Returned to t-orbiter. Uncooperative.” Several other names had notes which said, “Dec. Brain in jar 506” or “Dec. Brain in jar 712.” Master Edward shuddered as he realized that “t-orbiter” referred to “therapy orbiter,” and “Dec.” meant “deceased.”

  These were NOT volunteers! he thought.

  The middle section of the volume outlined a series of “placebo effect” experiments. Master Edward read that subjects given sugar pills were told these were “new cures” for their maladies. Locating a page outlining the results, he read aloud: ‘The higher the suggestive force used by the controller, the more likely it was that a placebo would work. Subjects having the greatest faith in the placebo responded most favorably to treatment. . . . ”

  Faith, Master Edward thought Keep the Faith. . . .

  Flipping through a number of experiments describing mentation for the purpose of operating consumer products, he found an entry near the end of the volume dated December 2, 2266: “I embarked upon these brain experiments with the intent of improving economic conditions through control of each consumer’s buying impulses. This remains a valid concept, and I intend to leave copies of key experimental data where it can be utilized by future generations. I feel there is much more to discover concerning the brain, but I am somewhat fearful of proceeding.”

  Master Edward looked away from the book, gazed across the room at the painting over the fireplace. The three-dimensional woman was in motion again, and four children sat at the kitchen table eating cookies and drinking milk. Faith, Master Edward thought again, unsure of the reason for the returning thought. Keep the Faith . . . .

  He replaced the book on the shelf, turned forcefully to face the tuxedo meckie. “Tell me the secret of eternal youth,” Master Edward demanded.

  “Look to the holy water, Master. Then look within yourself. You have always said this.”

  “Elaborate.”

  “I cannot, Master,” the meckie replied, raising its arms in helplessness. “That is all you have told me.” The meckie’s white button lights blinked. Curiously, it seemed nervous.

  As Master Edward glared at the faceless mechanical servant, he felt a strong impulse to knock it over. “What is the source of our holy water?” he snapped.

  The tuxedo meckie turned toward the raised panel door. The door slid open. “There is the source,” the meckie replied. “Beyond the one-way glassite.”

  Master Edward moto-shoed to the open doorway, peered through it into a darkened room. He mentoed for light. Overhead fluorescent panels flickered on, flooding the room with harsh white light. A paper-littered desk stood to one side next to an electronic mail terminal. The opposite wall was clear one-way glassite, looking out upon a freestanding wall which contained instrument dials.

  He rolled quickly to the glassite window, peered through it at the dials. There were six dials in all, each connected to an upside-down U-shaped Hack pipe which rose from and reentered the floor on the other side of the glassite.

  Master Edward saw something written on each dial, squinted to make out the words. He mouthed them slowly as they became clear. “New City . . . Water District . . . Number one-oh-four.”

  He pulled his head back in surprise, said, “What the Hooverville? New City Water District? THAT is the source of our holy elixir? Ordinary tap water?”

  Feeling shaky, Master Edward rolled the short distance to the desk and picked up a piece of electronic mail Printed on blue-bordered computer paper, he saw:

  NEW CITY WATER DISTRICT NO. 104 PAST DUE ACCOUNT—NOTICE OF SERVICE TERMINATION BLACK BOX OF DEMOCRACY ACCT. # 18DR-17654499Q BALANCE DUE: $26,312.15

  DEAR CUSTOMER:

  THIS ACCOUNT IS SERIOUSLY PAST DUE. AND IT IS APPARENT THAT YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO IGNORE OUR CORDIAL REMINDERS. IF THE BALANCE IS NOT PAID BY AUGUST 31, 2605. YOUR WATER SERVICE WILL BE DISCONNECTED. SINCERELY,

  J.D. LAIRD

  COLLECTION DEPARTMENT

  Master Edward rolled out of the room in a state of shock, letting the slip of paper fall from his grasp as he passed beyond the doorway. The secret was within my mind all the time! he thought. But now that I know . . .

  “Shall I pay this bill now, Master?” the tuxedo meckie asked, retrieving the paper. “Tomorrow is the thirty-first.”

  “What? Oh, yes. Go ahead and pay it.”

  The meckie rolled into the room with the slip of paper in its grasp. Moments later, Master Edward heard the whir and throb of the electronic mail terminal.

  Master Edward glanced down at the inlaid coffee table with its familiar “Keep the Faith” message. There can be no doubt, he thought.

  Stopping at the fireplace, he leaned both forearms on the mantel and stared down into the brick-lined pit where two wood logs rested on a grating. Master Edward mentoed the fireplace, watched orange and blue flames spring up instantly around the logs.

  And in what did Uncle Rosy believe? he thought.

  “Willard!” the woman’s voice screeched. “Willard!”

  “Yes, dear,” Master Edward called back. “Coming, dear.” I should check to see if we are eluding the comet, he thought. But does it matter?

  It was early afternoon of Garbage Day minus two when President Ogg and Billie Birdbright looked into Conference Room fifty-seven through one-way glassplex. The two-hundred-twenty-meter-long room was full to bursting with committee-members, messengers, auditors and an assortment of support personnel. Lieutenant Colonel Meg Corrigon stood at the head of the table, addressing the throng. To President Ogg’s ears, her lips moved silently, for he had turned off the sound in the viewing room.

  “Look at them!” President Ogg said, elated. “By tomorrow, they’ll branch off into subcommittees, and the next day there will be sub-subcommittees!”

  “It IS exciting, sir,” Birdbright said.

  “You’re seeing government organization in its embryonic form,” Ogg said, barely able to contain his excitement. “Why, who knows, Billie? . . . This could be the beginning of a new sub-bureau!”

  “Marvelous, Mr. President,” Birdbright said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “That would keep people occupied for years!”

  “I can see it now,” Ogg said, lowering his eyelids and gazing at an indeterminate, far-off point, “a new building, hundreds of construction workers . . . required forms by the million!”

  “Uncle Rosy would have been proud, Mr. President!” Bird-bright turned to look at the President, saw tears forming in his eyes.

  President Ogg cleared his throat, then glanced quickly at his Chief of Staff to see if Birdbright had noticed his moment of emotional weakness. Birdbright had already turned away and was watching the committee meeting.

  Ogg looked through the glassplex again, saw people streaming out the doors into adjacent conference rooms. “They’re breaking off into splinter groups already!” he said. “My Rosenbloom, but this is exciting!”

  “May I ask a rather pointed question, sir?’ Birdbright queried, l
ooking sideways at the President.

  President Ogg lifted an eyebrow in surprise, replied, “Why, yes, feel free. . . . Always feel free to be direct with me.”

  “Sir, the crux of this comet matter is that Earth is going to be turned to garbage in fifty-one hours.”

  “And the necessary committee work will take much longer than that,” Ogg said. “That concerns you, doesn’t it, Billie?”

  Noticing a twinkle in the President’s eyes, Birdbright said, “Yes, Mr. President. To be quite honest, I don’t see how you can possibly remain so calm.”

  “Consider the AmFed system, Billie!” Ogg said in a deep, presidential tone. “Upon what is it based?’

  “Why . . . upon the teachings of our Beloved Master, Uncle Rosy.”

  “That includes Job-Support, does it not?’ Ogg’s blue green eyes took on the omniscient expression of a Freeness Studies Instructor.

  “It does,” Birdbright said cautiously.

  “And where is Uncle Rosy now?”

  “He is presumed to have died . . . nearly three hundred years ago.

  “But he lives on, Billie! . . . In our hearts and dreams . . . and, not unimportantly . . . in the Black Box of Democracy!”

  Birdbright scowled, said: “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “Do you think the Black Box would allow Earth to be destroyed?” Ogg removed a red-bordered priority letter from his pocket, unfolded it and passed it to his Chief of Staff.

  “Uh, no,” Birdbright said, accepting the sheet. “I suppose not.”

  “Read it, Billie. Came in on the mail terminal a few minutes ago.”

  “From Bu-Tech,” Birdbright said, scanning the message. “Orbital speed of Earth up twelve-point-five percent . . . possibly due to pumping effect on the planet from rhythmic garbage shots . . . checking planet’s reduction in mass from garbage shots. . . . ” He looked up. “Sounds pretty serious, Mr. President.”

  Ogg smiled. “The Black Box changed the orbital speed . . . to get us away from the comet!”