Yoo Retoont, Sneogg. Ay Noo

by Marek S. Huberath

  “How do they arrive at that figure?” asked Tibsnorg, interested. “Is it for all individuals born or only for persons?”

  “Are you kidding? For persons, of course. Less than a tenth are born alive.”

  Tibsnorg scrutinized Dringenboom. The driver seemed completely normal. True, he wore a gray tunic and trousers, so his body was not visible, but apart from the harelip that had been operated on, the scar from it mostly hidden by a graying stubble, nothing indicated any departure from the norm.

  As if reading his thoughts, Dringenboom said, “My entire trunk was covered with warts on long, disgusting stalks. I had them removed. But the biggest problem is between my legs.” Dringenboom grimaced. “But don’t feel sorry for me, Tibsnorg. I’ll buy myself the proper equipment and make five living kids with it. I’ve already put 1620 money away,” he added, seeing Tibsnorg’s disbelief.

  That much money was inconceivable: Tibsnorg could save only 22.24 money from each ten-day period. For the sum of 1620 one could buy all of Tib-that is, of course, as biological material. More and more often her slender, graceful figure appeared before him, surrounded by a storm of colorful hair. His dreams were invariably about the Room. In and out of those dreams moved familiar shapes, but Tib was always present.

  Tibsnorg rented a better room, one that had a window. Rooms at the surface were a rarity, so he was surprised that his new room-though a little smaller and with two viewscreens instead of three-cost only eight money more than the previous one. He understood the reason when he learned how high the radiation background was in rooms at the surface. But the view was worth it. He would spend hours looking at the opaque, leaden clouds that hung over the bare dun hills. The edge of the glacier wasn’t visible, because his window was too low. The glacier could be seen only from the observation tower, and only on clear days or with good binoculars.

  The scene, though it wasn’t lovely like the ones on the viewscreen, drew him with irresistible force. That was probably why he applied for the position of driver of an outside transporter. Another motive was the high salary, which would allow him to save a considerable sum in a relatively short time.

  At the transport bureau he was told to go to an official in a wheelchair. The man didn’t come much above the desk, but there was something in his eyes that advised caution. When Tibsnorg presented the application, the man looked him over.

  “Are you neuter or sexed?”

  “Neuter,” Tibsnorg lied, aware that being neuter was a condition for the job. The official nodded and with a disproportionately small hand entered something on the keyboard. He regarded the screen, and the lines of his face hardened. Even before he spoke, it was clear that the interview was over. Dringenboom almost struck Tibsnorg when he heard what had happened. In a fury, he pulled from the pocket of his worksuit his indicator-a small, pink piece of plastic.

  “Look at that, idiot!” he said, pointing a thick finger at the plastic. His finger wobbled over the pink rectangle. “When that turns red, I can throw out my calendar…” His eyes flashed in his deeply tanned face. He made so much money, he could tan his skin. “Are you in such a hurry to get into the ground?!” he snarled.

  “You can afford a sun lamp,” said Tibsnorg quietly.

  “And what, stupid, is that worth?… You can have woman by the bunch… even if you’re missing everything between your legs but balls. The balls are what’s important… the rest of it, the meat, doesn’t cost more than 600, 800 money.”

  “I’m all right physically,” Tibsnorg blurted. “It’s my nervous system that’s not complete.”

  “That’s even cheaper… I’m telling you, you won’t be able to drive the women away. They’ll pull you apart. You should live, not die, my friend…”

  Tibsnorg thought of telling him about Tib, but changed his mind, and the conversation ended there.

  Abe Dringenboom was the only person Tibsnorg saw regularly. With random acquaintances at the table Tibsnorg exchanged only a few words. In contrast with his life in the Room, he led a solitary existence. He didn’t seek out people; he lived with his memories. The women he met in the cafeteria or passed in the corridors couldn’t compare with Tib: either they were ugly or their deformities were too evident. He began to wear, according to the rules, the red stripe that signified that he was not neuter, but that made no change whatever in his behavior. Perhaps he grew a little curt with the women, who now began to approach him. Possibly, had he worn the two red stripes that indicated full function, the pulling apart that Dringenboom warned about would have happened, but with one stripe Tibsnorg was left in peace.

  Several days later, Dringenboom brought unpleasant news.

  “I have cancer,” he said in a dull voice.

  “So? Half the population has cancer,” said Tibsnorg with a shrug.

  “Mine’s in phase C,” said Dringenboom.

  “You have 1620 money, you’ll be all right,” said Tibsnorg.

  “It’s 1648,” corrected Dringenboom. “But it’s too little, it’s worth shit… I have the kind that spreads quickly. To cure it, I’d need at least one and a half thousand, and then there’d be nothing left for a dick.”

  Tibsnorg was annoyed. “Why did they let it get to phase C? That’s advanced. You could sue the medical division,” he said.

  “It’s my fault,” muttered Dringenboom. “I didn’t go for the tests, because they cost and I wanted to save up before my indicator went completely red.”

  “But you can get free medical care, like every person.”

  “No thanks.” Dringenboom’s eyes were lusterless, and in his voice you could hear the lisp from his harelip operation. “They’ll leave me my brain, eyes, and part of my nervous system, and the rest they’ll take out and burn because of all the metastases. Then they’ll make me part of a control unit for a shoveler in a mine or for a conveyer belt…”

  “I think they could cure you another way than by replacing the diseased organs. But they don’t do that for economic reasons. The demand for organs would fall if they did that…” Saying this, Tibsnorg began to calculate: 1648 money could buy all of Tib. And Dringenboom would be dead soon in any case. His indicator was already very dark. How many organs could Dringenboom buy? Twelve? Fourteen? Tibsnorg thought, “He’ll lose his body in the end anyway, and for him that’s worse than death. How can I get his money?”

  Dringenboom looked at Tibsnorg, saying nothing.

  10

  Dringenboom changed after that. He became reticent and less sure of himself. When Tibsnorg told him about Tib, he shook his head wearily and said it was ridiculous, Tibsnorg should pick a woman for himself among persons and not go looking among biological material. To purchase an entire Tib he would probably have to save for a lifetime, and long before that happened, others would buy different parts of her body.

  But Dringenboom agreed to take Tibsnorg for a ride on his huge truck. He carried loads from a fairly distant open mine. The run went through hills covered with wind-driven gray dust.

  “All it takes is a dozen breaths of that,” Dringenboom said, baring his teeth between his asymmetrical lips. “But the dust has to get past a pretty good filter,” he laughed, “so instead it takes a few hundred thousand breaths.”

  The open mine was the ruins of an ancient city, from which the metal was being reclaimed. A giant shovel dug into the twisted walls of a former residence or factory. Dringenboom waited on line for the metal. Finally a portion of reinforced concrete, rubble, and dust was emptied into his truck.

  “I make four, five runs a day… Central always tells me the path to take that has the lowest radiation level. Because the path changes, according to how the wind blows or how the rain or snow falls.” He pointed at the tiny screen. “The radiation level is constantly updated. Today it’s low, but sometimes the screen makes an awful racket… On such days we get a bonus of two or three money.”

  On the way back he let Tibsnorg drive a little. It was a matter only of giving the commands, since the truck was comput
er-controlled.

  “If anything goes wrong, the autopilot brings it home,” said Dringenboom. “Like if you pass out. The load can’t be lost.”

  On one of the hills stood a solitary little building half buried in dust. It was all in one piece, even to the roof, door, and glass in the windows.

  “I’d like to live in that house,” said Dringenboom, “and not in the city.”

  “Live on the surface?”

  “Your room is on the surface, Tibsnorg. One can do it, with enough shielding…”

  11

  At last the day came that had to come. The day that Tibsnorg had imagined in many different variations, but never thought that when it came, it would find him so unprepared.

  He was working, as usual, at the viewscreen. He had saved up 48 money plus 320 of deferred credit. The screen presented the next order requiring a decision. A neat row of green letters and numbers informed him, with precision, that for AT044567744 it was proposed that the arms, legs, and trunk with neck be removed for one female recipient, the head for another. The brain would be terminated, and of course the code would be removed from the register.

  “The woman must have had to work hard and long to afford such a body,” he thought bitterly. “And the other woman, she must have liked the slender face and blue eyes in the catalog, liked them tremendously, to put up with deafness. Unless she saved enough to buy another pair of ears…”

  He had known all along that this would happen, yet now he hesitated. He had thought he could save more money for this moment. But he had to act quickly, in this situation that was not the one he had imagined.

  “Shit,” he said over and over.

  He asked the system for time to think, explained that he was considering the possibility of only one recipient’s acquiring specimen AT044567744, as that would be more profitable. His request would delay the decision a little. He disconnected the cameras, got up from his desk, and left. His stride was efficient, swift. Exertion of will at every step had become a habit with him.

  It was not far to the warehouse of biological material. He had already learned from the system in which room she was being kept. The system had also given him all the entry passwords. The sleepy guard at the massive metal door did not challenge him. Tibsnorg was covered with sweat. The elevator went with terrifying slowness. At last-the right level. An endless corridor with identical doors. What he intended to do was unheard of.

  He came to door AT0445677. It opened automatically. Along the walls of the next corridor were stations that held biological material-dozens of individuals of different sizes and different degrees of deformity. All were without clothes; all were in a web of wires, electrodes. At first he counted nervously, then saw that there were numbers over each station. A long time passed before he reached her. She stood with open eyes. Their eyes met. She knew him. Disconnecting the wires took a few moments. It took longer to undo the straps that constrained her arms and legs. She immediately pressed herself, her face, to him.

  “Yoo retoont, Sneogg. Ay noo,” she said softly.

  “Hurry, Tib, hurry.” He took her by the hand. He knew that her muscles would be in good condition from electric stimulation. No one wanted to buy an atrophied limb.

  “Piecky,” she said, pointing to a small shape in a cluster of wires. Together they freed Piecky, who immediately woke.

  “Leave it, Snorg,” he said. “This is absurd.”

  Snorg took him in one arm and led Tib with the other. He caught his breath only in the elevator.

  “And now what?” asked Piecky. Tib nestled her face against Snorg the whole time.

  “I know all the passwords,” said Snorg. “We’ll have surprise on our side…”

  In a room they passed, he found coveralls for Tib. At the main door the guard gave them an indifferent look. The thought did not occur to him that two of the three leaving were only material. He entered the password Snorg gave him, looked at the screen, and nodded for them to go.

  Outside the warehouse, they practically ran. Snorg stopped a small automatic car, and they all climbed in. Even by vehicle, it was a considerable distance to Dringenboom’s room. In all the corridors, the silence was unbroken and ominous.

  They found Dringenboom in his room; he was still sleeping. A blow, and the camera hung sadly from its cable. A sharp pull completely broke the connection.

  “Abe! Get up!” Snorg shook his shoulder. “Tib’s with me. Are you coming with us?”

  Dringenboom rubbed his eyes. He looked at them.

  “Don’t call me Abe. I’m Abraham,” he said. “She’s lovely,” he added, looking at Tib. “No, I’m not going with you. Take the keycard for my truck and hit me on the head. Do it with that book, so there will be some blood… and get as far as you can from the city. That’s your only chance.”

  “All right,” said Snorg. “I’ll tie you up too. It’ll look better.”

  It took a while, because Snorg didn’t want to hurt him too much. Finally Abraham Dringenboom lay senseless and tied up on his sofa, blood flowing from the broken skin on his forehead.

  They were driving to the hangar of the transporter machines when the corridor filled with the howl of sirens. It was beginning. Every few meters, a red light flashed. The cameras in the corridor all turned slowly. The fugitives made it to the hangar before the doors locked. Snorg found Dringenboom’s truck. He slid the keycard in its entry slot, and the machine responded. All three of them got on the rising platform and in a few moments were inside the control cabin. Snorg drove the truck from the hangar. It was a dark day, the clouds heavier than usual. He activated the viewscreen. An information broadcast was being given.

  “…shocking theft of biological material at a value of more than 4500 money! Nothing like this has happened in our memory! An intensive search is being conducted for the perpetrator, who is a DG-rank officer of the Archive of Biological Material. His name is Tibsnorg Pieckymoosy. The defense forces are joining the search. They will guarantee that the stolen property is reclaimed without damage and that the perpetrator is captured quickly.”

  The screen showed a number of taped images, from various cameras, of Snorg carrying Piecky and with Tib walking beside him.

  Snorg whistled through his teeth. “Those defense forces are several hundred he-men with perfectly functioning bodies full of muscles,” he said.

  “I would say we haven’t a prayer.” Piecky took his eyes from the screen. “But I’m grateful to you for allowing me to see this…” He gazed out the window. “I lost track of time, hooked up to those wires. There was an injection for sleeping, an injection for waking… and so on, in a circle.”

  Tib also had been staring out the window, silently, from the moment they left the hangar.

  “Fortunately there was a guy my height opposite me, and we could talk,” Piecky went on. “The guy also talked with Tib, so she wouldn’t become totally stupid. I couldn’t talk to her, because she couldn’t see my mouth and she can’t hear. She’s getting smarter. At least that’s what the guy said.”

  Snorg drove the truck to the mine.

  Piecky watched with great attention as a powerful claw gathered pieces from a ruin that had once been a cathedral. “And people lived in that… ?” he asked. Snorg nodded. Pieces were loaded into the truck.

  “So that was how they lived before the war,” Piecky said to himself. “They must have felt very lonely in such spread-out buildings.”

  When the truck was filled, Snorg turned it around.

  “We’re going back?” asked Piecky, uneasy.

  “I have a plan,” Snorg said.

  The truck went at maximum speed.

  “Tib, put a mask on yourself and one on Piecky,” he said, nodding in the direction of the compartment that held the masks. But Tib didn’t respond, because Snorg was facing the viewscreen as he spoke and she didn’t see his lips. When he repeated it toward her, she took out the masks and suits, and then quickly and with surprising skill put them on herself and on Piecky. Snorg p
ut on his own mask and suit. They came to the hill where the solitary intact building stood.

  Snorg stopped the truck, and the moving platform took them to the ground. The sound indicator he carried chattered. Tib carried Piecky in her arms like a baby. The protective suits they all wore were made of transparent material. Piecky was too short, so Tib wrapped the excess several times around him. They saw that they would have to walk a distance much greater than any they had ever crossed on foot. In addition, the dust came to mid-calf. For a while they stood and watched the truck leaving, on automatic, the huge machine growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared at the horizon. They turned and started walking. It was slow and difficult making their way through the dust and loose sand. By the time they reached the building, they were covered with sweat. Tib was a little less tired, because her muscles had been kept in such good condition in the warehouse.

  Inside, they found that the roof was in one piece, and the thick wood door as well, and there was even a fence and gate in the back. Snorg continued to hope that their escape would be successful, but Piecky thought it was a mistake for them to have left the truck. He said they should have driven as far as possible from the city and its defense forces. The city might then have given up its pursuit of them. Snorg privately agreed with Piecky, but he wasn’t able to break altogether with the city. Having left it, the three were so extremely alone.

  None of them removed the protective suit, because the dust was everywhere.

  Tib sat and looked at Snorg.

  “Ay w’shoor yood retoon f’mee…,” she said. He smiled.

  “Ay’d a dreem… that ay leff th’Room. Layt was all round… and thees straynge peepul, s’many peepul… Then thay put mee ther next t’Piecky… It’s s’good that yoor heer ’gain,” she said, watching his lips the whole time.