“How could they? . . .”
“Who knows, Billie. But I’m sure of it. We don’t need to lift a finger! The Black Box is doing it for us!”
“Brilliant, Mr. President! Absolutely brilliant!” Birdbright wondered if his manner betrayed the doubts he felt. He handed the letter back to Ogg.
Ogg looked at his Chief of Staff askance while pocketing the message, said, “Don’t repeat this to anyone, but I was contacted by the Black Box.”
“Personally? When?”
“Sunday morning. I believe they arranged for the deaths of Munoz and Hudson as punishment for a plot they had to take over our holy government by illegal means.”
Birthright’s jaw dropped. “How were they planning to—”
“I’ll explain later, Billie. Rest assured the Black Box won’t permit any harm to come to the AmFed system. I’m convinced of it.”
“That makes me feel a little better, Mr. President,” Birdbright said, still not feeling entirely at ease.
“All we need to do is what we’ve always done. That is to uphold the principles taught by Uncle Rosy. Without exception, Billie. Without exception.”
Birdbright nodded in affirmation.
“Come along now, Billie,” Ogg said, rolling toward the door. “I need to discuss the eulogy with you. Hudson and Munoz are to be astro-disposed tomorrow.”
On their second Wednesday afternoon coffee break in the Cave Coffee Shop, Birdbright and Carla sat at a window table overlooking the underground waterfall.
“Oh Billie, don’t be silly!” Carla said with a soft smile. “We’ve only been out on one date. . . . and to coffee together a few times.”
“I’m serious,” Birdbright said, reaching into the vest pocket of his sportcoat to remove a pink and blue card. Smiling serenely, he reached across the tabletop to press the card into her palm.
Carla gazed into his smoke grey eyes adoringly, did not have to look at the card to know what it was. Her soft smile broadened as she looked down and read the card aloud: “Mr. William Birdbright requests the pleasure of your company for a Pre-Permie Counseling Session.” She looked up to meet his gaze, beamed. “Oh, Billie!”
“Well?”
Their hands met at the center of the tabletop, and Carla felt the warmth and strength of Birdbright’s grasp as he held her hands between his own. This was a table Carla had often occupied with Sidney. But Sidney seemed remote to her now, even though it had been only a few days since she had seen him.
Carla barely heard or saw the clamoring breaktime crowd at nearby tables. It was a private moment in an unprivate world, and even Harmak seemed to be playing her tune. She gazed deep into Birdbright’s eyes, then looked away to watch the underground waterfall cascade over a stalagmite precipice. The water seemed to dance and sparkle with a magical quality. There could be but one answer.
“Yes!” she said, hearing her voice crack with excitement. “The answer is yes!”
Birdbright released her hands and jumped to his feet in an untypical burst of expended energy. “Did you hear that?” he yelled, looking from table to table. “She said yes!”
Several people laughed good-naturedly. “Congratulations!” said a blonde woman from the Sixteenth Request Department. “How wonderful!” exclaimed another. “When’s the session?”
Birdbright beamed, reached down to pull Carla to her feet. “Right now!” he said, hugging Carla while the crowd auto-clapped and wished them well.
“Now?” Carla said, surprised.
“Why yes, of course. Our union contract says we can take off work for matters of permeage.”
“I know!” she snapped. “But why did you make an appointment before receiving my answer?”
Birdbright winked. “I knew what you’d say,” he said.
Carla’s lavender eyes flared. She pulled away, said: “Why you egotistical, arrogant, self. . . . ” Her words trailed off as she detected a worried expression on Birdbright’s face. “I love you,” she said softly, kissing him on the cheek.
* * *
Stork’s Baby Bazaar was on the west side of the Bu-Permie Shopping Center, adjacent to a large bulletin board which proclaimed: LITTERING IS LAWFUL. Birthright’s bright blue autosport stopped several hundred meters away, and he and Carla short-stepped out onto a heart-shaped red platform. The platform was crowded and paper-littered, and they waited while other happy, laughing couples took turns rolling down to an eight-laned skatewalk. Carla turned to watch the autosport disappear into a parking tube.
Birdbright went first, followed by Carla. They rolled around an overpass and spiraled down to expressway level, taking the slow right-hand lane of the northbound side. They moved quickly from one lane to the other until they were in the fast lane, then zipped up an exit marked “STORK’S” onto another heart-shaped platform.
Holding Birdbright’s hand tightly on the crowded platform, Carla looked up along the face of a three-hundred-story clear glassplex elevator structure which connected the platform with all floors of the building. The elevator cars were in the shape of babies wrapped in brightly colored swaddling blankets, seemed suspended from a massive ochre-colored stork’s beak on top of the building. Carla could not see the entire stork now, but had seen it many times during helitours of New City. It was breathtaking.
The Stork Building looked like a baby shower gift, was covered with red, blue, green and yellow animal designs on a silver-white background. A broad pink ribbon encircled the building and flapped in a gentle breeze above a flashing neon STORK’S sign. An elevator car arrived, and a concealed door in a blanket fold whooshed open.
They disembarked at the seventy-fourth floor, short-stepping into a wonderland of baby products. The store had been decorated gaily, had pink and blue ribbons, bright product signs and dozens of eager salesmen ready to smother their customers inattention.
An exceedingly round salesman in a light blue bunting outfit moto-rushed over as Carla and Birdbright entered. He was propelled by white moto-baby shops with bells across the top that jingled merrily when he moved. A teething ring necklace dangled from his neck, resting on top of a very firm and protruding tummy. His cheeks were bright pink, and a script nametag on his chest read “Jimmy.”
“Oh goo!” Jimmy said, in the best jargon of the store. “We’re so glad you’re here! Do you have anything in mind?” He sucked on the teething ring, awaited a reply.
“We’re looking for room seventy-four thirty-one,” Birdbright replied.
“Ah!” the salesman said, oozing happiness. “Another Pre-Permie counseling session!” He waved an arm gracefully toward the rear of the store, flipping his palm to designate one of the side walls. “Right down that way, folks. Near the Ultra-Nu Combination Baby Set displays “
Birdbright and Carla moto-shoed in the direction designated, passed little bedroom sets, playpens, strollers, stuffed tigers and elephants, mobiles and a whole host of other items. Colorful banners hung over the various displays to announce: “AS ADVERTISED ON NATIONAL HOME VIDEO.”
Pausing to examine a lifetime photography contract, they overheard a salesgirl in a pink bunting outfit tell a couple that Stork’s prices were competitive. “The Stork’s label on a product will tell your friends that you paid the very highest price,” the salesgirl said. The couple was visibly impressed, and the salesgirl added, “All our products carry the Goodie Homemaker’s Seal of Approval!”
Room seventy-four thirty-one was two aisles away and had a bright yellow door encrusted with tiny red hearts. Birdbright mentoed a heart-shaped wall button, watched it go in as a buzzer rang. The door swung open, revealing a small office which had been made to look larger with mirrors on the floor, walls and ceiling. A rotund woman sat at a heart-shaped plastic desk in the center of the office. She smiled. “Come in, come in,” she said in a friendly but hurried tone.
Carla glanced lovingly at Birdbright, smiled. They entered and took seats on a glassplex loveseat which had heart-shaped red throw pillows. Carla noted a sign on the front of the desk which
read, “A HAPPY PERMEAGE IS A CONSUMPTIVE PERMEAGE.” A pink-and-blue broach on the lapel of the woman’s white dress identified her as a G.W. two-hundred.
“I am Wanda Sutter,” the woman said, “your Pre-Permie Counselor.” Glancing at an appointment telescreen to her left, she said, “You are William Birdbright and Carla Weaver?”
“Yes,” Birdbright replied nervously.
Counselor Sutter reached into an automatically stocked desk drawer and removed a pink box which had a cameo baby picture on the cover. Opening the box, she took out several pamphlets and placed them reverently on her desktop. “This is a starter kit,” she announced. “It contains government pamphlets on every conceivable subject, including that very popular publication, “Consumption—How To Go On Full Automatic.”
“Great!” Birdbright exclaimed.
“Wonderful!” Carla agreed, glancing up at the mirrored ceiling to watch the counselor from above.
“The kit also contains an instruction manual for conservation of energy during sexual intercourse,” Counselor Sutter said, opening one of the pamphlets. “It’s all arranged in a simple-to-understand step-by-step format.”
Carla and Birdbright leaned forward to examine the pamphlet, nodded.
“Let me see now,” the counselor said, reaching across her desk to pick up a computer sheet. “Mister Birdbright, you have a Consumption Quotient of eighty-three. Miss Weaver, you register eighty-seven. Now I would like each of you to hold hands and use your free hands to grasp the metal handles at your respective sides of the couch.”
The lovers obeyed, and as they did so, the counselor mentoed a desk-mounted console. She studied the console screen for a moment, then exclaimed happily, “Marvelous! Your projected Combined Consumption Quotient is ninety-eight-point-three-seven! That’s very high!”
“Oh!” Carla squealed, knowing the importance of this.
“A permeage made in the Happy Shopping Ground!” Counselor Sutter said, bubbling with delight. “Perfectly matched personalities! You will reinforce one another to buy, buy, buy!”
“Isn’t it marvelous, honey?” Birdbright said, glancing at Carla.
“Oh yes!” she gushed.
Counselor Sutter stamped a duplicate form set, then placed the forms in a folder and handed it to Carla. “Now you must visit six more agencies to get their approval,” she said, “after which you can obtain a permeage license at the courthouse. The addresses are listed on the inside cover.”
Carla was so nervous that she dropped the folder. As she reached down to retrieve it, the counselor said, “Come back after the permeage and one of our salesmen will assist you in the selection of your first baby.”
“We will,” Carla said.
“Based upon the characteristics you want in the child,” Counselor Sutter said, “each of you will be given specific birth pills which are guaranteed to produce a beautiful child from your union.”
“Thank you,” Carla said happily.
“Eye and hair color charts are on the wall outside my office,” Counselor Sutter said, rising to her feet. “You may examine them as you leave. Now, if you folks will excuse me, I do have another appointment.”
“I want a boy,” Carla said as she and Birdbright rolled to the door, “with sandy brown hair with a touch of curl . . . and pastel blue eyes like the baby Becky got.”
“Excellent selections,” the counselor said. “And be sure to ask the salesman about baby’s own cuteness machine. It will sleep-teach him to do the darnedest things!”
“Oh!” Carla said. “I can’t wait!”
Uncle Rosy’s suite contained four large modular rooms: living area, kitchen, bath and bedroom. Additionally, there were a number of smaller adjoining rooms used for storage and offices. The suite was perhaps twice as spacious as a sayerman’s quarters, and Master Edward had searched it rather completely by mid-afternoon, only a few short hours after the murder of Uncle Rosy.
He found nothing further of note, save for a large quantity of books. When the digital cuckoo clock on one wall struck four, Master Edward found himself seated on the carpet in a wash of reflected sunlight next to a bookcase, scanning volumes quickly. The sunlight warmed his head and shoulders but made it difficult to read the brightened pages.
Religious books in this section, he thought, closing a black leatherbound volume. Buddhaic-Brahmanism, Judaism, Islamic-Taoism . . . all religions destroyed in the Holy War of twenty-three-twenty-six.
He replaced the volume on the shelf, moved to another section and reached for a slender paperbound book, entitled Franklin Roosevelt and the W.P.A. As he opened it, a slip of white paper fell put upon his lap. Master Edward retrieved the paper and read these notes penned neatly in Uncle Rosy’s handwriting:
The Great Order of Existence
1. Realm of the Unknown. God?
2. Realm of Magic.
3. Realm of Inertia and Gas.
4. Realm of Flesh.
5. Realm of Plants and Lower Life Forms.
At the bottom of the slip of paper, scrawled hastily, he read: “From voices in my brain, August 26, 2605. The voices returned two days later to say, ‘The answer is not to be found within books. Important truths flow from the soul, like a primordial river.’”
He wrote this only days ago! Master Edward thought. Voices? Munoz and Malloy heard voices too—insanity! But all of them? Even Uncle Rosy? He wadded the paper and hurled it, followed by the book, at a tuxedo meckie which stood motionless nearby.
“Yes, Master?” the meckie responded as the book thudded off its metal front. The meckie’s lights blinked. “You desire something, Master?” To Master Edward’s ears at that moment, the meckie’s synthetically sophisticated voice sounded particularly irritating and inane.
Master Edward grunted something angry and guttural which was not intended to be discernible, then moto-shoed into the bathroom module. There, for the third time that afternoon, he glared dejectedly at the reflection of his face in the grooming machine mirror.
The aging had accelerated today, and now a grotesque mask looked back at him, its expression more sad than angry. Frustration and guilt were etched into the features, and he saw deep lines around the eyes, with shallower lines on the cheeks, on the forehead and around the neck. The backs of his hands had dark brown age splotches. The skin looked taut, drawn.
He smashed both hands against the mirror, watched spokes from a break in the glass spread across the mirror. A trickle of blood ran down the side of one hand, and he wiped it on his white robe.
I feel so damned guilty! he thought. To have destroyed a great man, and now . . . Tears streamed down Master Edward’s cheeks, running over his upper lip and into his mouth. He tested salt.
Master Edward wiped his eyes and mouth with a hand towel, thought, How can I step into the Master’s moto-shoes? I am not as wise or as strong as he. . .
Master Edward let the towel slip out of his grasp. It fell into the sink as he thought, If only I could erase all memory of losing my faith, of killing Uncle Rosy and of the holy water source . . . the meckies could pay the water bill without my knowledge. . . .
This thought started as a fantasy to him, but then something hit him with no less force than a Bu-Tech thunderbolt. S.M.E.! he thought, recalling the Selective Memory Erasure procedure. . . . Master Edward was yelling before he reached the living room module: “WHERE IS THE S.M.E. TERMINAL? WHERE IS THE S.M.E. TERMINAL?”
A tuxedo meckie blinked on its button lights as Master Edward roared into the room. “S.M.E. terminal, Master?” it said. “What is that?”
“Don’t hold back on me, you little pile of gears!”
“Master, I know not of what you speak.”
“Get the others, then!”
“The others, Master?”
“The other tuxedo meckies, you programmed fool! Get them!”
The meckie rolled out through the suite’s main entrance, returned presently with two of its mechanical look-alikes. They formed a row on one side of the livin
g room module, blinking busily. “Yes, Master?” they said in unison in their sophisticated, synthetic voices.
“Which of you took Onesayer’s body?” Master Edward asked.
“I, Master,” the centrally positioned meckie replied.
“And where is it now?”
“It, Master?”
Master Edward clenched his teeth, made fists. “The body, damn you! The body!”
“Onesayer’s body, Master?”
“Yes, yes. Yes-yes-yes!”
“Onesayer’s body was launched an hour ago, Master.”
“Good.” Master Edward unclenched his fists, relaxed his hands at his sides. “Now each of you pay close attention. I am looking for the S.M.E. terminal . . . the Selective Memory Erasure terminal.”
“I do not know where the S.M.E. terminal is,” they replied in unison.
“Why is the terminal not here?”
The meckies spoke at once, creating a jibberished sentence: “I do I not ordered know the terminal, Master.”
“What?” Master Edward said.
The meckies repeated their jibberish.
“One at a time,” Master Edward said, pointing to the centrally positioned tuxedo meckie. “You first.”
“I do not know, Master,” this meckie said.
“Now you.” Master Edward pointed to the meckie on his left.
“I ordered the terminal, Master.”
“Aha! Now we are getting somewhere!” Master Edward rolled very close to this meckie and demanded: “Where is it . . . uh, the terminal?”
“The terminal is on order, Master.”
“Yes, but where is . . . Let me rephrase that. When did you order the terminal?”
“Thirty-one months ago.”
“And why has the terminal not arrived?”
“This is a special order item, Master. One of a kind.”
“Yes, but is it not important enough to rush through?”
“You have never said this in the past, Master. We have only made eleven requests so far. The Twelfth through Twentieth Request Departments have not been involved yet.”
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