Eight Against Utopia

by Douglas R. Mason

  It was a good question and the answer seemed thin to Kalmar as he gave it. He stressed that he had taken it on his own initiative, thinking to solve a supply problem which was causing E.S. some difficulty. He had not realized that he was breaking any special security arrangements.

  Gruber was unexpectedly reasonable. “I thought that must be the case. I am here to remind you, however, that it is not your function to think ahead, for my department. We will say no more about the matter at this moment, but any repetition would bring severe consequences for you.”

  It was some years since Gaul Kalmar had been at the receiving end of any kind of disciplinary rebuke and he did not like this one. But he managed a kind of apology and Gruber appeared to accept it. Then he was gone on his busy way.

  Kalmar suddenly realized that the whole interview was a phony. An official of Gruber’s rank would not be so accommodating. There was something else. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was something else. They knew all about it. Not the projected sabotage perhaps or the time scheme. But he was sure they knew. The question really was how? And through whom?

  Four

  Lee Wayne sat in the nose of the ambulance tender and looked out from its panoramic screen at the blank glass division which separated him from the outer lock. He grinned at the reflection of Wanda Mardin in the co-pilot seat and received a marginal response as if a flicker of expression had disturbed a stone mask. A dirty stone mask at that. She had worked for an hour on a mammoth cleaning chore, while he had finalized his preparations for a trial run.

  Platinum-blond hair wildly bouffant, dark streaks where sweat and dust had produced toiler’s clay. If she had tagged onto a Bacchic rout she would have been handed a tambourine with no questions asked.

  She said, “This is about my lot. Take that idiotic simper off your alleged face and get on with it.”

  There was another fifteen minutes before Swarbrick, painting busily above, would sound the recall. Time enough for a trial. Though, in fact, by an instinctive feeling for the mechanics of the set-up, he knew that it was all right. It had to go.

  With one of his rare moments of insight into Wanda’s personal angle, which alone kept her loyalty over the lean patches, he stopped what he was doing and gave her his full attention.

  He leaned sideways and took her in a firm, but sensitive grip as if she was the most valuable piece of equipment in sight, which she was by any reasonable standard. He said, “Never think I don’t appreciate you. You’re the top. We’ll have a ball out there, you’ll see,” Then his lips came down on hers for a long minute and her hands slowly moved to hold his head and keep him there.

  When he turned back to pick up the thread of his research activities, she said, “It’s all very well, but you can’t buy me over as easily as that.”

  The tone belied the words. In the reflection, she looked like a maenad who had gone off ivy and elected to turn over to straight milk.

  A great deal of dust had been dumped through the hole in the wall, but there was enough left lying about to turn the enclosed lock into a kind of large-scale snowstorm in a crystal. Visibility fell to nil. It was difficult to know what the tender was doing. For what it was worth, the instruments said that it was hovering at zero level. Wayne toyed with the idea of sending Wanda out to look at it from the outside, but she was saved by the flue effect of the intermural spaces. The mist thinned, until the glass screen reappeared and the lock was virtually dust free.

  Wayne said, “There’s always a better way. Just a matter of thinking the thing through.”

  “So I needn’t have bothered?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It’s all practice for sweeping the cave.”

  “If you can’t find me anything better than a cave I’ll be coming back.”

  “For now, you can go and shift the screen.”

  “You make it sound like a special treat.”

  The tender settled without a bump and she wearily heaved herself out and stationed herself in front of the wall panel. A mimed signal from the pilot, and she went through the sequence of moves which had been outlined for her. The great glass screen began to open from a point top center and fell away left and right in two triangles pivoted from the base. Ceiling lights came on and revealed a chamber similar in size to the one they were in. Strangely it was almost free from dust. Air seals must have been better preserved. Wayne beckoned her in and then lifted them to zero level. This was the moment of truth.

  Working with extreme caution, he edged the tender along. It was flexible and completely maneuverable. He took it forward at walking pace until they were two meters from the outer skin. This was black, ribbed, and seemingly integral with the solid structural walls. Once more he grounded the tender and went out to look at the problem. There was no control panel in the outer lock. Everything was managed from inside. Obviously there would be a simple cancellation device to ensure that the outer shield could not rise until the inner one was dropped. That meant someone had to operate the sequence from inside.

  For now, he was content to try it out. Leaving the tender in the outer bay, they went back to the inner chamber and dropped the shutter. He found an overriding circuit which kept the outer ceiling lights on while the transparent screen remained closed and they were able to do a visual check on what was going on.

  The final barrier was evidently an affair of great mass. When he completed the chain of contacts which should make it move, there was no sign. Vibration beneath their feet showed that something was happening and the ceiling lights in both compartments dimmed to an orange glow. Clearly it was not an operation they could afford, power-wise, but it was necessary to know.

  Wanda was staring hard at the ribbed black surface. She said slowly, “It is moving. You can’t easily tell, but I’m sure it’s moving. Up, I think.”

  The vibrations took on a new urgency. Lee Wayne knew there was something in the bowels of the thing fraying itself into a powder. But at floor level, a bar of a new strange light was appearing.

  Over the millennia, the Environment Stabilization Engineers had created a quality of light in Carthage which was as near to sunlight in its general properties as could be devised. It warmed and browned the citizenry and fluctuated in simulation of a typical northern day latitude 30°N. Long alienation from the standard had, however, produced some deterioration. The intruding tongue of reality made the lock appear suddenly tawdry and garish.

  Barely above roof level of the tender, the rising black curtain ground to a halt. Quick movements by Wayne killed the operating circuits as a red telltale was drawing attention to its effort syndrome. They had made it, with a centimeter or two in hand. Any unevenness in the floor and the tender would not get out in one piece.

  Standing at ground level they looked out past its shining side. The approach to the lock was in a deep cutting and only a thin strip of pale sky cut across their limited oblong of vision. The ramp was littered with the debris of fallen masonry. Everything glistened as if it were under a fountain.

  Wanda said, “Can we go and have a quick look? It doesn’t seem as welcoming as all that.”

  Wayne knew she had posed the key question. With the outer door open, it was unlikely that the intervening screen could be moved. They would have to cut a way out. He said, “Anything to oblige you,” and started on the nearest surface with the M.P. tool.

  For a count of seven, nothing happened; his mind was ranging over a dozen possibilities and getting nowhere in solution. She said, “Can’t you do it?” and in answer the blade found its way through. It was as if the toughened surface was backed by transparent jelly. Once the incision had been made, the cut was effortless. He drew out two oblong openings with a small intervening strip—one slightly smaller than the other.

  “Why two?”

  “One for you and one for me.”

  “We’re not going into a new world with the principle of apartheid.”

  “If you don’t get a wriggle on there won’t be time to go at all.”
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  She followed him through the larger door.

  They stood hand in hand at the foot of the ramp. A thin rain was falling and the damp air made her shiver.

  “Does it do this all the time?”

  “You’re in a very questioning mood.”

  The damp air had a quality they had never experienced before. Wanda was breathing deeply. She went farther out onto the slope and stood in the open with the rain sluicing down, washing away the dust and flattening her fine hair into a pale skullcap. Her thin silk tunic and close-fitting ankle-length pants were at no time meant to be camouflage for her purposeful figure. As draperie mouillée, they merely emphasized the plastic possibilities of the most satisfying areas of her physical landscape.

  Wayne, though no stranger to it, was literally seeing it in a new light. He earned himself a remission for some long evenings of neglect by saying, “The world is your oyster. You’re too beautiful to be hidden under a bushel. Even a bushel as elaborate as Carthage.”

  Running feet through the lock prevented any development of the theme. Swarbrick said, “What the hell are you up to? I’ve been calling. Move now. Hitchen’s on his way.” On the climb back he said, “How do you explain the mermaid? Not that everyone won’t be glad to see her.”

  Wayne had enough to do with the ropes. When they passed the homecoming Hitchen, Swarbrick said, “Two friends called to see me. I’ve left my easel, but I’ll be back for it.”

  Wanda gave him the full treatment of an eyelash-fluttering look and said simply, “I fell in a fountain.”

  Startled, but gallant to the last, the courteous historian said, “It is an ill wind indeed that blows nobody any good.”

  On the morning of the following day, Gaul Kalmar felt an increase in tension to a level he had never experienced before. He felt that it must be externalized in some way, that the quiet crowd on the walkways must turn and look at him, marking him out as a deviant. Allowing for it, allowing for the special factors of the day, the beginning of something so new that it was impossible to imagine all the implications, there was still a residue that was unexplained. It was in the air like something poised, waiting for a signal to begin.

  The crowd felt it. He was sure of that. They were aware that something unusual was to happen. But why should that be? He was no believer in second sight. Something practical must be triggering it off.

  His computer mind began to process the data presented by the morning scene and looked for common factors, with the experience of a thousand other everyday mornings just like it. He eliminated items that appeared unchanged: the backdrop of cypress-lined avenues, sweeps of marble frontage, bronze ornamentation; static ways hanging overhead on fragile-looking columns; people crossing, pausing, changing lanes, moving to the entrances to workshops and hydroponic spreads below Byrsa, schools, hospitals, and research labs in Esmun.

  Usually there was a sprinkling of lower-grade transport engineering staff to deal with any minor difficulty on the busy walkways. And that was it. The difference was there. At least three times as many officials in the olive-green uniform of that service were on duty. He looked closely at the next one he passed and was sure that he had never seen the man before. Moreover there was something about his bearing which was uncharacteristic of the grade. It could easily be a police official playing charades. After the next two, he was sure of it. Byrsa was preparing to move in and was making sure that if there was widespread disaffection it could easily be contained.

  As the day wore on, his impression was confirmed. Gruber appeared again and hung about for most of the morning. Jane Welland went early off duty in the afternoon. She knew about a meeting timed for 1700 hours in Alhambra but was still unaware of the final nature.

  He spoke to Tania on viseo. Her perfect oval face with severe black hair was always tuned onto the small screen with self-conscious artistry. She had a sense of composition.

  There was no change of expression when he said, “I hope you remember we have a party on. Swarbrick’s finished his sketches of that Moorish quarter. Private show at 1700.”

  She said, “I’ll be there. Will it take long?”

  He could have given a hint, but some instinct of caution dictated, “No, we can go out to Celesta if you like.” As he said it, he realized that he had no enthusiasm for such an evening. Something had gone out of this relationship and, in some way that he did not stop to define, it was a relief. There was no change in expression on the beautifully modeled face on the screen. She said, “I have a patient waiting, Gaul. I’ll see you later on.”

  The screen blanked and he was left with two hours to fill before the end of his stint. Three hours before the balloon went up, the power crisis arose to keep the good men of Byrsa busy sorting out a power supply to keep the President ticking over.

  At 1530 hours he was not wildly delighted to see Gruber edging his way through the siren-studded sea of the main floor. The man stopped to speak to the supervisor who was filling Jane Welland’s niche at the control desk. Then he came on.

  “I’m bearing bad news, Mr. Kalmar. There’s a priority request for power at top level. The next four hours will be extremely important. I shall have to ask you to stay on duty.”

  That was awkward, but not a desperate matter. He could walk out at 1650 and simply make his way on the one-way trip to Megara. They would have enough to bother about here without chasing him.

  He said, “It happens I have an arrangement, but it can be canceled easily.” There was no point in contesting. Gruber would have official backing. This was clear when the man went on, “I’ve also given instructions for the recall of the senior supervisor on the Byrsa control. Welland, I believe the name is.”

  As he said it, Gruber was watching for any trace of special interest that might appear. He got one reaction. Uncomplicated anger. Kalmar said, “Your business is to pass instructions to me and I will implement them. You have no right to interfere with the running of this department.”

  Gruber’s voice had a silky edge of menace. “Very convincing, righteous indignation, Mr. Kalmar. I know you would have wanted to recall Welland. I just saved you the trouble. Probably it will be unnecessary, but we don’t want any mistakes tonight.”

  Not to be curious would be as unnatural as to want to know too much. Kalmar said, “Can you tell me any more? I’m only the man who works here.”

  “Not now. I think it will all come clear later on.”

  A low-pitched buzz on the viseo asked for attention. Gruber simply sat tight. He was not going to make even a conventional bid for a courtesy rating.

  When the screen filled, it was Jane Welland. Accustomed to her trim, functional working dress, he was aware of a new dimension. She was wearing a pale mauve crepe-de-chine tea gown with a delicate design of bamboo and acanthus leaves and her hair was piled in an elaborate and sophisticated style which he had never seen before. Gruber was moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue in a sort of reptilian appraisal.

  With an effort Kalmar stopped himself from ramming the man’s teeth down his throat and said, “Yes, Jane, what can I do for you?”

  “What goes on, Gaul? I’ve got this message about coming in. I thought there might be some mistake.”

  “No mistake, I’m afraid. I have Controller Gruber here now. It’s top level. Just pack your overnight bag and come along in.” In spite of Gruber, he had to add, “You look absolutely magnificent. Your presence here can do nothing but good for the morale of all and some.”

  “Thank you. Right away then.”

  The picture dimmed. She was leaving it to him to sort the thing out.

  At 1600 she walked in, once again in blue uniform and with hair swinging in deep elastic waves, almost to shoulder level. She stopped at the control desk and got herself up to date. A signal on the personnel board in his office noted her arrival. Gruber sat on, silent and watchful.

  At 1630 there had been no extra demand from Byrsa. In thirty minutes the disintegrators would clock in. Earlier, if Lee Wayne h
ad made even a tiny error in setting. It was going to be a finely run thing.

  Kalmar walked out to the main floor and stopped at Jane Welland’s desk. He pulled across the self-canceling memo pad and wrote as he spoke.

  He said, “I’m sorry you had to spoil your evening by coming in.”

  He wrote, “At 1645 go out. I’ll meet you outside, side entrance.”

  She checked it as if it were a calculation and canceled it without haste as Gruber appeared on her other side. To him she said, “I believe I have you to thank for this extra duty?”

  Although an admirer, he was no one’s slave. He said, curtly, “That’s so. We find we can’t do without you.” He walked on to make a slow circuit of the four consoles which broke down the supply into various segments of Byrsa.

  Kalmar circulated in the contrary direction, making it clear that Byrsa was only one of his commitments. The time disk, on a slim fluted pillar in the center of the floor, was showing 1640 on each of its eight faces. It was nice to know that unanimity existed somewhere.

  At 1644 he saw her cross the floor and go out on the side which led to the personnel restrooms. A ring corridor connected to the main foyer and all other departments. It was not much of a cover. But she had left a sling bag; no one would expect anything but a short absence. Gruber watched her out, noted the bag and settled back in his chair.

  Kalmar watched a half minute crawl over the time disk and then walked over to the location board and flipped his tag onto DOME. Conscious of Gruber’s eyes on his back, he went to the translucent, center shaft and stepped into its narrow cage. Careful judgment with the controls enabled him to slow the ascent, so that on the next floor he was able to override the safety door and slip out without killing the motor. He sent the elevator on its way. It would stop at the dome and the stop on the first floor would hardly register in the smooth sequence of telltale indicator lights in his office. Jane was waiting in the first reduction bay; slowly circulating; deep in thought. They slipped quickly into the main stream, full of people at this time. Still overpopulated, he noticed, by extra officials. Kalmar took her arm, so that her elbow fitted inside his. It seemed a very natural thing. The movement of her hip against his forearm was a new kind of intimacy. Eyes met briefly and there was a delight in the golden brown depths which gave the episode a new dimension. She was enjoying it.