Delos 2 - Futureworld

by John Ryder Hall

  The wounded man mumbled again and a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “I can’t hear you!” Chuck yelled, silently cursing the sound of the traffic below, despite the glass that vaulted over them. He bent and put his ear to Frenchy’s mouth.

  With an effort, Frenchy tried again. His lips worked but nothing came out. Then he took a deep breath and uttered one word.

  “Delos!”

  • • •

  The fire-engine siren almost drowned out the screaming. The studio audience clapped and waved, jumped up and down, and shouted wildly. The bleachers in the television studio were filled mostly with women of various ages, plus a few husbands, slightly embarrassed at being where they were. But they, too, were caught up in the controlled hysteria of the audience.

  Light flashed and ran in dotted lines around the big, thick letters that spelled out THE BIG BUNDLE. The Master of Ceremonies, suave and practiced, smiled widely and somewhat fatuously at the young man who was acting as if his life had just exploded and insanity was his prize.

  Ron Thurlow leaped up and down, grinning foolishly, looking from the screaming, delighted, envious audience to the well-tailored emcee. He then turned to look again, waving his hands in delighted helplessness, at the big illuminated scoreboard that was blinking on and off in garish colors. Several scantily clad and brightly smiling girl, all dressed alike and from the same genetic mold, stood around, not knowing what to do exactly; but no one cared. The smiling emcee put his arm on the bouncing shoulder of the winner and held his microphone close, to overcome the shouts and cries of the audience.

  “You’re right!” he exclaimed ecstatically. “Ron Thurlow, you have done it! You have just won . . . The Big Bundle!” He faced one of the pretty girls, who came forward carrying a huge check before her. “And what a bundle it is! First off, a check for . . . fifty thousand dollars!”

  More screams came from the audience, a wave of sound that made the audio engineer wince. The girl made a show of handing Ron the big check. He grabbed it, stared at it in utter and near-hysterical wonder, then put a hand on top of his head and danced around. He staggered and two of the girls caught him, deftly turned him toward the emcee, who took his arm, smiling widely.

  “And then . . . and then . . .” He watched the winning contestant’s look of astonishment. “Twenty-one days at the most fabulous resort in the history of the world!”

  The emcee turned toward a girl with a surgically-implanted smile who was pulling back the curtain on a rear projection screen. A dazzling display of computer graphics exploded in vivid colors, then dissolved to an aerial view of the Delos resort.

  The Master of Ceremonies threw out his hand in a grand gesture. “Delos!” he cried.

  Ron Thurlow momentarily ceased dancing and stared in unbelieving stupor at the screen. Then he exploded in a windmill of flailing arms, embracing the girl who had handed him the check, still crunched in his clenched fist. Finally he broke away, grabbed the emcee and hugged him almost viciously, his mouth open and yelling; but his words, unamplified, were lost in the general noise level. The emcee broke free with an effort, made a quip unheard in the noise, and brushed his hands over his carefully sprayed hair. Ron was jumping around, embracing the girls, stepping on toes, and acting as though he had completely lost his reason.

  And everyone in the audience envied him.

  As did every person in the television audience across the country and in the nine major marketing areas outside the United States, where the show was seen by satellite simulcast The emcee knew the audio engineer would now turn up the gain on his next words in order to drown out the audience. “That’s right, Ron,” he said, smiling widely. “Delos!” He paused for another wave of envious shrieks. “Where ten thousand perfect robots exist for your pleasure!” The delicate way he said “pleasure” was something he had practiced.

  He grabbed Ron and pulled him around to face the cameras. Talking very fast he said, “You may choose Roman World—”

  The rear projection screen showed tapes of each section of Delos as the Master of Ceremonies outlined Ron’s choices.

  “Roman World . . . a lusty treat for the senses . . . where beautiful women and handsome men . . . are yours to command, where gladiators die at the point of your sword.” He waved his hand again and the screen changed to a scene of pageantry and armored knights. “Or . . . Medieval World . . . an exact reconstruction of thirteenth-century Europe, where you may live an absolute king!” The emcee waved again and the screen revealed a beautiful garden scene. “Or . . . Spa World . . . a surrealistic garden of pleasure where old age and pain have been eliminated!”

  Thurlow jumped again and the emcee caught his arm in a vise-like grip, trying to keep him within mike range.

  “Or . . . Futureworld . . . where you will be transported throughout the solar system, commanding your very own rocket ship, enjoying the favors of young women of weightless beauty, soaring through space like an astronaut . . . !”

  The emcee turned from the screen, which now showed a sleek spaceship flashing across a starry sky. “All that, and more, will be yours . . . Ron Thurlow!” There was a burst of music and the emcee began waving at the camera. “Now, we’re a little late . . .” Thurlow broke free and began hugging two of the uniformed girls, and the emcee laughed indulgently. “. . . so good-bye for now, folks. We’ll see you next week . . . when one of you may win . . . The Biiiiig Bundle!”

  The credits began to roll over the image of Thurlow hopping about wildly, hugging the emcee and the pretty girls singly and in bunches, waving his check, grinning at the audience. The announcer’s voice said, “Travel arrangements by Continental Airlines. This is the International Media Corporation Network.”

  The picture on several million tubes changed to a shot of a stylish young woman holding a hand mike and talking, though it was not her words that were heard. Another announcer was saying: “Tonight . . . Cronkite Award-winning Tracy Ballard, with an exclusive report from Washington on life-styles in the Eighties. Another positive news special from I.M.C.”

  The picture zoomed in on the very attractive young woman, a glossy, fashionable female in her late twenties. “This is Tracy Ballard, in Washington, for I.M.C.”

  • • •

  Chuck Browning trotted up an escalator, swivel-hipping it around stationary passengers, and decanted into the fancy, polished lobby of I.M.C. headquarters. Without a look at the sunburst of golden wire that was the highly publicized sculpture dominating the high-ceilinged lobby, he ran toward the elevators and jammed his hand into a closing door. The door slid back with a hiss and Chuck wedged himself in. The other passengers more or less concealed their annoyance at the few seconds delay and the doors closed.

  It took four stops of the high-speed elevator before Chuck got out. He hurried along a corridor, past a huge bright-plastic I.M.C. logo, and confronted a secretary who guarded the entrance to the main-floor conference room.

  The woman wrinkled her beautiful, bored, carefully sophisticated, no-one-impresses-me-anymore nose and spoke distantly to the tall young man. “You’re late!”

  Chuck leaned close and in a heavy whisper said, “I got a note from my teacher.” He patted his breast pocket with broad significance.

  The secretary gave him a flashing, I-know-your-kind-charm-boy look and gestured toward the inner door.

  Chuck winked at her and shoved open the conference room portal. He was immediately more circumspect in his movements. A number of men and women sat around the big, elliptical rosewood conference table which dominated the room. A narrower ellipse of rosewood, containing television screens for each person seated around the table, had risen out of the table’s center. Spying an empty seat, he slid along the wall, keeping an eye on the screen in front of him. He recognized the TV tape. It was an establishing shot for the old Westworld section of Delos. A stagecoach came around some frame buildings and drove into the center of the town and stopped in a cloud of dust. Cowboys rode past,
a shopkeeper crossed the street, two women in long dresses and bonnets walked down the boardwalk.

  Chuck noticed the tall, graying, dark-eyed, confident-looking man standing at the end of the table. His name was Duffy and he gave Chuck a quick look without missing a beat of his speech as Chuck sidled along.

  “Two years ago,” Duffy was explaining, “the worst day in the history of Delos began with no obvious signs that anything would go wrong.” People descended from the stagecoach, dressed in wide hats and gunbelts, looking around with delight and wonder. “Our robots were behaving as programmed and”—he hesitated only fractionally before he went on—“though there had been some evidence of circuit malfunction, they were well within normal parameters.”

  Chuck reached the empty chair and slipped into it. The woman seated next to him turned around and he recognized Tracy Ballard.

  She frowned at him and whispered fiercely, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He smiled and laid a finger to his lips and pointed at the video monitor, which was showing more scenes of Westworld. A black-clad gunfighter was bracing one of two vacationers in the street.

  “. . . At fourteen twenty hours we lost control,” Duffy went on. “Suddenly one of our most complicated robot gunslingers began to act in a most vicious and unprogrammed manner.” The two vacationers were arguing over who was to confront the bad guy. A tall, good-looking man turned to face the steely-eyed gunfighter. Duffy continued: “Before our very monitors”—the gunfighter drew, fired, and the vacationer spun around, falling awkwardly to the dust, facedown, and died—“he killed a guest. Then . . . cry havoc!”

  The gunfighter in black was chasing the other vacationer through the streets, then through the very inner corridors and workshops of Westworld, buried beneath the surface city. Everywhere the robots were going berserk, killing the vacationers in a frenzy of unprogrammed mayhem.

  The monitor shifted to Medieval World, where a Black Knight was dueling a fat and desperate guest, and winning.

  A vice-president of I.M.C. spoke up, a graying, middle-aged man, impeccably tailored and well used to authority. “I thought your problems was only in Westworld.”

  Duffy shook his head. “No.” He tipped his head toward Chuck, a slight smile on his lips. “Thanks to your Mr. Browning, Westworld got the brunt of the bad publicity, but the breakdown occurred throughout the resort.”

  The Black Knight sank his sword into the fat guest, pinning him to a rough trestle table.

  Tracy pointed at the screen. “I gather the Black Knight is a robot?”

  Duffy nodded. “Yes,” he said, then his eyes went to the monitor, where the black-clad gunfighter was watching the escaping vacationer ride away through the desert that surrounded Delos. The robot’s eyes were glittering, as though they were solarized ball bearings.

  Arthur Holcombe, the I.M.C. vice-president, spoke up again. “How many guests were killed?” The gunfighter was now chasing the frightened vacationer across the rocky desert.

  “We lost more than fifty,” Duffy answered in a neutral voice. “And, of course, many of our own technicians paid the supreme penalty.” The gunfighter shot down a technician, dressed in white coveralls and driving a small repair vehicle. “Aside from the human element, it was a financial and public-relations disaster of the first magnitude.”

  The gunfighter was riding hard after the scared vacationer, but Duffy touched a stud and the screens went gray. The elliptical television-set center of the table slowly sank until its top filled in the smooth table surface and the visitors on opposite sides could see one another again.

  The lights came up at the same time and the men and women around the table shuffled about, lit cigarettes, and whispered to one another. Duffy cleared his throat and caught their attention again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, those of us who have devoted our lives to creating Delos were stunned and shaken by the events I have shown you.” His eyes roved from one another, a frank and honest face concerned with serious problems. “And yet,” he continued, “we did not lose faith. In the last two years we have invested more than one-point-five billion dollars to rebuild our facilities.” He paused to let the figure sink in.

  Chuck smiled to himself. Some people think big investment needs big consideration, regardless of other priorities, he told himself.

  “We have replaced every circuit,” Duffy went on with deliberate emphasis. “Every program and every robot. The new Delos is not only the most fantastic resort in human history, it is also fail-safe.”

  Chuck restrained a snort. Where have I heard that before? he thought. Nothing can go wrong, go wrong, go wrong . . .

  “Last month, as you know,” Duffy proceeded, “we reopened the resort.” He made a gesture of helplessness. “Human response has been good, but quite frankly, not as good as it should have been.” His eyes were momentraily troubled, then he forced himself into a blander tone. “Our problem is the memory of the disaster at Westworld.” His well-manicured hand gestured around the table at those assembled. “And that is why we have come to you. We offer the I.M.C. network an absolute exclusive story for all media. Every phase of our operation will be open to you.” His eyes flicked to Chuck Browning, then away. “All we ask, in return,” he said earnestly, “is that you treat us in a fair and positive manner.”

  His eyes came back to Chuck’s face and the reporter shrugged almost imperceptively.

  • • •

  Arthur Holcombe sat down in his tall-backed leather chair and indicated for Chuck to sit across the vice-president’s wide, polished desk.

  They settled back and Chuck continued with the conversation they had been having as they walked from the conference room back into Holcombe’s over-large, over-furnished, look-how-impressive-I-am office.

  “. . . They closed the Westworld section completely and I don’t think they have plans to open it for years—if ever. Just too much of a bad-vibes situation there.” He shook his head. “Too bad, too, because it was fun, a part of Americana, and in many ways, probably cheaper to run and construct than some parts of Delos.” The vice-president nodded, lighting up a cigar. “Yes, and more Americans relate to the West than to Europe of the Middle Ages, no matter what—”

  The office door swung open with a bang and Tracy Ballard stood there, glaring. The two men looked at her with some surprise, watching her breathe heavily, trying to calm herself enough to speak. When she found her voice she slammed the door behind her as she strode across the thickly carpeted room.

  “You will not do this to me, Arthur,” she said with loud emphasis. “Not for one damn minute!” She loomed over the executive menacingly. “Do you hear me?”

  The vice-president blinked and took his cigar from his mouth.

  “They can hear you in the lobby,” Chuck advised, a slight smile on his lips.

  Tracy’s head swung in his direction and she snapped at him through a tumble of her thick, golden hair. “I’m not talking to you, mister!”

  Chuck grinned broadly as she turned back to Arthur Holcombe with fire in her eye.

  “Now, Arthur,” she said, changing her tone to firm annoyance, rather than outright anger, “you promised me that the Delos story would be mine! Exclusive to television and exclusive to me. Is that true?” she demanded.

  Holcombe nodded uncomfortably. “Yes . . .”

  She gestured toward Chuck without looking at him. “Then will you tell me why this ink-stained Neanderthal was invited to our meeting?”

  Holcombe sighed and then nodded. “I’ll try—” he began.

  Tracy made a wide circle with her arms, groaned with frustration, and pointed again at Chuck. “For God’s sake, Arthur, this man is an anachronism. Nobody reads anymore. Certainly not anyone under fifty. And certainly not newspapers!” Her hand flailed the air in Chuck’s direction. “Why would you risk a wonderful video story to satisfy the ego of an obsolete hatchet man?”

  “Is that me?” Chuck asked Holcombe mildly, pointing at himself.

/>   “Shut up, you!” Tracy yelled, waving her hand at Chuck and returning to Arthur Holcombe.

  “Right,” Chuck said briskly, earning him a lightning stab of Tracy’s blue eyes.

  “He has an . . . angle,” Holcombe said in an uncomfortably tight voice. “I . . . I want to pursue it.”

  “What?” Tracy flashed back in astonishment.

  “Call it a hunch,” Chuck said blandly.

  She put her fists on her hips and turned around, taking several paces around the room. “Wonderful!” she said, slapping her hip and looking at the ceiling. Her hand went out, palm up, as though imploring the gods. “And when the people at Delos find out you’re sending Mister Bad News himself, that will be the end of our exclusive!”

  Holcombe shook his head as Tracy turned back toward him. “I told Mister Duffy what I had in mind.” The executive shrugged. “He has no objection.”

  Tracy Ballard’s eyes flared once again. “Well, I do!”

  “Yes, I gathered as much.” Holcombe tapped his cigar ashes into a receptable, taking the opportunity to give Chuck a look. “But I would like to remind you that, while you are, indeed, a glamorous and highly paid television correspondent, you are still . . . an employee.” Tracy sensed rather than saw Chuck’s involuntary grin and gave him a dark look as the I.M.C. vice-president continued. “In fact, you are my employee.” There was a steely edge to Holcombe’s voice, as if he had compromised just that far and no farther. “And, unless you would like to spend the next five years doing weather and fashion in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, you will now shut up and do as you’re told.”

  The woman correspondent took a long deep breath, her eyes dark and brooding, the seething rage obviously boiling up within her. Chuck watched her objectively. Both of them knew the great power of networks. They both knew the network would never actually send such a well-known personality to Sioux Falls, except symbolically. Even big-time network news people could be “reassigned” to foreign posts, where they were the top network dog there; but it was still out of the action of New York, Washington, or Los Angeles. A year or so of that, appearing once or twice a month on filmed or taped sections of the network news, effectively blocked from the Big Stories, and their careers would probably be permanently damaged. Out-of-country posts were fine for someone on the way up, but not someone who had already achieved the enviable position Tracy Ballard had. Chuck watched her inner turmoil and felt a certain sympathy. No one liked to be pressured or threatened, either personally or in one’s career, but still Chuck had his job to do, and the definitely nagging suspicion that something was wrong in Delos overrode any minor compunctions he had about intruding upon Tracy Ballard’s sphere of activity.