by Keith Laumer
He walked down the path, stood by the rutted dirt road. Placid cows nuzzled damp grass in the meadow beyond it. In the distance a train hooted.
There are railroads, Tremaine thought. But no jet planes, no radio, no movies, no automatic dish-washers. But then there’s no TV, either. That makes up for a lot. And there are no police waiting to grill me, and no murder charge, and no neurotic nest of bureaucrats waiting to welcome me back …
He drew a deep breath. The air was sweet. Pm here, he thought. 1 feel the breeze on my face and the firm sod underfoot. It’s real, and it’s all there is now, so I might as well take it calmly. After all, a man with my education ought to be able to do well in this day and age!
Whistling, Tremaine started the ten-mile walk into town.
COCOON
Sid Throndyke overrode his respirator to heave a deep sigh.
“Wow!” he said, flipping to his wife’s personal channel. “A tough day on the Office channel.”
The contact screens attached to his eyeballs stayed blank: Cluster was out. Impatiently, Sid toed the console, checking the channels: Light, Medium, and Deep Sitcom; autho-hypno; Light and Deep Narco; four, six and eight-party Social; and finally, muttering to himself, Psychan. Cluster’s identity symbol appeared on his screens.
“There you are,” he grieved. “Psychan again. After a hard day, the least a man expects is to find his wife tuned to his channel—” “Oh, Sid; there’s this wonderful analyst. A new model. It’s doing so much for me, really wonderful. .
“I know,” Sid grumped. “That orgasm-association technique. That’s all I hear. I’d think you’d want to keep in touch with the Sitcoms, so you know what’s going on; but I suppose you’ve been tied into Psychan all day—while I burned my skull out on Office.” “Now, Sid; didn’t I program your dinner and everything?” “Um.” Mollified, Sid groped with his tongue for the dinner lever, eased the limp plastic tube into his mouth. He sucked a mouthful of the soft paste—
“Cluster! You know I hate Vege-pap. Looks like you could at least dial a nice Prote-sim or a Sucromash . .
“Sid, you ought to tune to Psychan. It would do you a world of good …” Her sub-vocalized voice trailed off in the earphones. Sid snorted, dialed a double Prote-sim and a Sucromash, fuming at the delay. He gulped his dinner, not even noticing the rich gluey consistency, then in a somewhat better mood, flipped to the Light Sitcom.
It was good enough stuff, he conceded; the husband was a congenital psychopathic inferior who maintained his family in luxury by a series of fantastic accidents. You had to chuckle when his suicide attempt failed at the last moment, after he’d lost all that blood. The look on his face when they dragged him back …
But somehow it wasn’t enough. Sid dialed the medium; it wasn’t much better. The deep, maybe.
Sid viewed for a few minutes with growing impatience. Sure, you had to hand it to the Sitcom people; there was a lot of meat in the deep sitcom. It was pretty subtle stuff, the way the wife got the money the husband had been saving and spent it for a vacation trip for her chihuahua; had a real social content, too deep for most folks. But like the rest of the sitcoms, it was historical. Sure, using old-time settings gave a lot of scope for action. But how about something more pertinent to the contemporary situation? Nowadays, even though people led the kind of rich, full lives that Vital Programming supplied, there was still a certain lack. Maybe it was just a sort of atavistic need for gross muscular exertion. He’d viewed a discussion of the idea of a few nights earlier on the usual Wednesday night four-party hookup with the boys. Still, in his case, he had plenty of muscle tone. He’d spent plenty on a micro-spasm attachment for use with the narco channel …
That was a thought. Sid didn’t usually like narco; too synthetic, as he’d explained to the boys. They hadn’t liked the remark, he remembered. Probably they were all narco fans. But what the hell, a man had a right to a few maverick notions.
Sid tuned to the Narco channel. It was a traditional sex fantasy, in which the familiar colorless hero repeatedly fended off the advances of coitus-seeking girls. It was beautifully staged, with plenty of action, but like the sitcoms, laid in one of those never-never historical settings. Sid flipped past with a sub-vocal grunt. It wasn’t much better than Cluster’s orgasm-association treatments.
The stylized identity-symbol of the Pubinf announcer flashed on Sid’s screens, vibrating in resonance with the impersonal voice of the Official announcer:
. . cause for concern. CentProg states that control will have been re-established within the hour. Some discomfort may result from vibration in sectors north of Civic Center, but normalcy will be restored shortly. Now, a word on the food situation.”
A hearty, gelatinous voice took over: “Say, folks, have you considered switching to Vege-pap? Vege-pap now comes in a variety of rich flavors, all, of course, equally nourishing, every big swallow loaded with the kind of molecule that keeps those metabolisms rocking along at the pace of today’s more-fun-than-ever sitcoms—and today’s stimulating narco and social channels, too!
“Starting with First Feeding tomorrow, you’ll have that opportunity you’ve wanted to try Vege-pap. Old-fashioned foods, like Prote-sim and Sucromash, will continue to be available, of course, where exceptional situations warrant. Now—”
“What’s that!” Sid sub-vocalized. He toed the replay key, listened again. Then he dug a toe viciously against the tuning key, flipping to the Psychan monitor.
“Cluster!” he barked at his wife’s identity pattern. “Have you heard about this nonsense? Some damn fool on Pubinf is blathering about Vege-pap for everybody! By God, this is a free country. I’d like to see anyone try—”
“Sid,” Cluster’s voice came faintly, imploring. “P-P-Please, S-S-Sid …”
“Damn it, Cluster … !” Sid stopped talking, coughed, gulped. His throat was burning. In his excitement he’d been vocalizing. The realization steadied him. He’d have to calm down. He’d been behaving like an animal…
“Cluster, darling. Kindly interrupt your treatment. I have to talk to you. Now. It’s important.” Confound it, if she didn’t switch to his channel now—
“Yes, Sid.” Cluster’s voice had a ragged undertone. Sid half-suspected she was vocalizing then too …
“I was listening to Pubinf,” he said, aware of a sense of dignity in the telling. No narco-addict he, but a mature-minded auditor of a serious channel like Pubinf. “They’re raving about cutting off Prote-sim. Never heard of such nonsense. Have you heard anything about this?”
“No, Sid. You should know I never—”
“I know! But I thought maybe you’d heard something …”
“Sid, I’ve been under treatment all day—except the time I spent programming your dinner.”
“You can get Prote-sim in exceptional situations, they said! I wonder what that’s supposed to mean? Why, I’ve been a Prote-sim man for years …”
“Maybe it will do you good, Sid. Something different …”
“Different? What in the world do I want with something different? I have a comfortable routine, well-balanced, creative. I’m not interested in having any government fat-head telling me what to eat.”
“But Vege-sim might be good; build you up or something.”
“Build me up? What are you talking about? I view sports regularly; and aren’t you forgetting my Micro-spasm accessory? Hah! I’m a very physically-minded man, when it comes to that.”
“I know you are, Sid. I didn’t mean … I only meant, maybe a little variety …”
Sid was silent, thinking. Variety. Hmmmrn. Might be something in that. Maybe he was in a rut, a little.
“Cluster,” he said suddenly. “You know, it’s a funny thing; I’ve kind of gotten out of touch. Oh, I don’t mean with important affairs. Heck, I hardly ever tune in Narco, or auto-hypno, for that matter. But I mean, after all, it’s been quite a while now I guess, since we gave up well, you know, physical contact.”
“Sid! If you’re
going to be awful, I’m switching right back to my Psychan—”
“I don’t mean to be getting personal, Cluster. I was just thinking … By golly, how long has it been since that first contract with CentProg?”
“Why … I haven’t any idea. That was so long ago. I can’t see what difference it makes. Heavens, Sid, life today is so rich and full—”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not talking about wanting to change, or anything idiotic. Just wondering. You know.”
“Poor Sid. If you could spend more time with wonderful channels like Psychan, and not have to bother with that boring old Office …”
Sid chuckled sub-vocally. “A man needs the feeling of achievement he gets from doing a job, Cluster. I wouldn’t be happy, just relaxing with Sitcom all the time. And after all, Indexing is an important job. If we fellows in the game all quit, where’d CentProg be? Eh?”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that, Sid. I guess it is pretty important.”
“Dam right kid. They haven’t built the computer yet that can handle Indexing—or Value Judgment, or Criticism—. It’ll be a while yet before the machine replaces man.” Sid chuckled again. Cluster was such a kid in a lot of ways.
Still, it had been a long time. Funny, how you didn’t think much about time, under Vital Programming. After all, your program was so full, you didn’t have time to moon over the past. You popped out of Dream-stim, had a fast breakfast (Vege-pap; hah! He’d see about that!), then over to Office channel. That kept a fellow on his toes, right up till quitting time. Then dinner with Cluster, and right into the evening’s round of Sitcoms, Socials, Narcos—whatever you wanted.
But how long had it been? A long time, no doubt. Measured in, say, years, the way folks used to be in the habit of thinking.
Years and years. Yes, by golly. Years and years.
Quite suddenly, Sid was uneasy. How long had it been? He had been about twenty-eight—the term came awkwardly to mind twenty-eight when he and Cluster first met. Then there was that first anniversary—a wild time that had been, with friends over for TV. And then Vital Programming had come along. He and Cluster had been among the first to sign up.
God, what a long time it had been. TV. Imagine sitting. The thought of being propped up against coarse chairs, out in the open, made Sid wince. And other people around—faces right out in the open and everything. Staring at a little screen no more than five feet square. How in the world had people stood it? Still, it was all in what you were used to. People were adaptable. They had had to be to survive in those primitive conditions. You had to give the old-timers credit. He and Cluster were a pretty lucky couple to have lived in the era when Vital Programming was developed. They could see the contrast right in their own lives. The younger folks, now—
“Sid,” Cluster broke in plaintively. “May I finish my treatment now?”
Sid dialed off, annoyed. Cluster wasn’t interested in his problems. She was so wrapped up in Psychan these days, she couldn’t even discuss the sitcoms intelligently. Well, Sid Throndyke wasn’t a man to be pushed around. He nudged the ’fone switch, gave a number. An operator answered.
“I want the Pubinf office.”
There was a moment’s silence. “That number is unavailable,” the recorded voice said.
“Unavailable, hell! I want to talk to them down there! What’s all this about cutting off Prote-sim?”
“That information is not available.”
“Look,” Sid said, calming himself with an effort. “I want to talk to someone at Pubinf—”
“The line is available now.”
An unfamiliar identity pattern appeared on Sid’s screens.
“I want to find out about this food business,” Sid began—
“A temporary measure,” a harassed voice said. “Due to the emergency.”
“What emergency?” Sid stared at the pattern belligerently. As he watched, it wavered, almost imperceptibly. A moment later, he felt a distinct tremor through the form-hugging plastic cocoon. “What … !” he gasped, “what was that? I”
“There’s no cause for alarm,” the Pubinf voice said. “You’ll be kept fully informed through regular—”
A second shock rumbled. Sid gasped. “What the devil’s going on … ?”
The Pubinf pattern was gone. Sid blinked at the blank screens, then switched to his monitor channel. He had to talk to someone. Cluster would be furious at another interruption, but—
“Sid!” Cluster’s voice rasped in Sid’s hemispherical canals. She was vocalizing now for sure, he thought wildly.
“They broke right in!” Cluster cried. “Just as I was ready to climax—”
“Who?” Sid demanded. “What’s going on here? What are you raving about?”
“Not an identity pattern, either,” Cluster wailed. “Sid, it was a —a—face.”
“Wha—” Sid blinked. He hadn’t heard Cluster use obscenity before. This must be serious.
“Calm yourself,” he said. “Now tell me exactly what happened.” “I told you: a—face. It was horrible, Sid. On the Psychan channel. And he was shouting—”
“Shouting what?”
“I don’t know. Something about ‘Get out’. Oh, Sid, I’ve never been so humiliated …”
“Listen, Cluster,” Sid said. “You tune in to a nice narco now, and get some rest. I’ll deal with this.”
“A face,” Cluster sobbed. “A great, nasty, hairy face—” “That’s enough!” Sid snapped. He cut Cluster’s identity pattern with an impatient gouge of his toe. Sometimes it seemed like women enjoyed obscenity …
Now what? He was far from giving up on the Vege-pap issue, and now this: a respectable married woman insulted right in her own cocoon. Things were going to hell. But he’d soon see about that. With a decisive twist of the ankle, Sid flipped to the Police channel.
“I want to report an outrage.”
The police identity pattern blanked abruptly. For a moment Sid’s contact screens were blank. Then a face appeared.
Sid sucked in a breath out of phase with his respirator, this wasn’t the police channel. The face stared at him, mouth working: a pale face, with whiskers sprouting from hollow cheeks, lips sunken over toothless gums. Then the audio came in, in midsentence :
“… to warn you. You’ve got to listen, you fools! You’ll all die here! It’s already at the north edge of the city. The big barrier wall’s holding, but—”
The screen blanked; the bland police pattern reappeared.
“The foregoing interruption was the result of circumstances beyond the control of CentProg,” a taped voice said smoothly. “Normal service will now be resumed.”
“Police!” Sid yelled. He was vocalizing now, and be damned to it! There was just so much a decent citizen would stand for—
The screen flickered again. The police pattern disappeared. Sid held his breath—
A face appeared. This was a different one, Sid was sure. It was hairier than the other one, but not as hollow-cheeked. He watched in dumb shock as the mouth opened—
“Listen,” a hoarse voice said. “Everybody, listen. We’re blanketing all the channels this time—I hope. This is our last try. There’s only a few of us. It wasn’t easy getting into here—and there’s no time left. We’ve got to move fast.”
The voice stopped as the man on the screen breathed hoarsely, swallowed. Then he went on:
“It’s the ice; it’s moving down on us, fast, a god-awful big glacier. The walls can’t stand much longer. It’ll either wipe the city off the map or bury it. Either way, anybody that stays is done for.
“Listen; it won’t be easy, but you’ve got to try. Don’t try to go down. You can’t get out below because of the drifts. Go up, onto the roofs. It’s your only chance—you must go up.”
The image on Sid’s contact screens trembled violently, then blanked. Moments later, Sid felt a tremor—worse, this time. His cocoon seemed to pull at him. For a moment he was aware of the drag of a hundred tiny contacts grafte
d to the skin, a hundred tiny conductors penetrating to nerve conduits—
An almost suffocating wave of claustrophobia swept over him. The universe seemed to be crushing in on him, immobile, helpless, a grub buried in an immense anthill—
The shock passed. Slowly, Sid regained a grip on himself. His respirator was cycling erratically, attempting to match to his ragged breathing impulses. His chest ached from the strain. He groped with a toe, keyed in Cluster’s identity pattern.
“Cluster! Did you feel it? Everything was rocking. .
There was no reply. Sid called again. No answer. Was she ignoring him, or—
Maybe she was hurt, alone and helpless—
Sid fought for calm. No need for panic. Dial CentProg, report the malfunction. He felt with trembling toes, and punched the keys …
CentProg’s channel was dark, lifeless. Sid stared, unbelieving. It wasn’t possible. He switched wildly to the light sitcom—
Everything normal here. The husband fell down the stairs, smashing his new camera …
But this was no time to get involved. Sid flipped through the medium and deep Sitcoms: all normal. Maybe he could get through to the police now—
Mel Goldfarb’s pattern blinked on the personal call code. Sid tuned him in.
“Mel! What’s it all about? My God, that earthquake—”
“I don’t like it, Sid. I felt it, over here in South Sector. The … uh … face … said the North Sector. You’re over that side. What did you—”
“My God, I thought the roof was going to fall in, Mel. It was terrible! Look, I’m trying to get through to the police. Keep in touch, hey?”
“Wait, Sid; I’m worried—”
Sid cut the switch, flipped to the police channel. If that depraved son of a bitch showed his face again—