The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe programmed peopleThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The programmed peopleAuthor: Jack SharkeyIllustrator: Ed EmshwillerRelease date: December 31, 2023 [eBook #72565]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1963Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROGRAMMED PEOPLE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The programmed peopleAuthor: Jack SharkeyIllustrator: Ed EmshwillerRelease date: December 31, 2023 [eBook #72565]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1963Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: The programmed people
Author: Jack SharkeyIllustrator: Ed Emshwiller
Author: Jack Sharkey
Illustrator: Ed Emshwiller
Release date: December 31, 2023 [eBook #72565]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1963
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROGRAMMED PEOPLE ***
THE PROGRAMMED PEOPLEBy JACK SHARKEYIllustrated by EMSHFrom Light-of-Day to Ultrablack,the people of the Hive went about theirrigid lives in ignorance of their realruler, of their true history. Howcould one slender blonde girl crackthis powerful monolithic structure?[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromAmazing Stories June and July 1963.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
By JACK SHARKEY
Illustrated by EMSH
From Light-of-Day to Ultrablack,the people of the Hive went about theirrigid lives in ignorance of their realruler, of their true history. Howcould one slender blonde girl crackthis powerful monolithic structure?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromAmazing Stories June and July 1963.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CHAPTER 1
Under the stark bluewhite glow that glittered from hidden niches onto the faceted undersurface of the vast vaulted crystal dome, the people milled and jockeyed for position near the dais. There was still room to move about and select a standing-site; most of the heavy thronging was still at the entrances, the wide, squat arches giving egress to the fifteen block-long arcades that radiated from the center of the temple like the spokes of a gigantic wheel. Between the pillars that framed these arches, long unbroken walls served as firm backdrops for the Vote Boxes, twenty-five to a wall, three hundred seventy-five in all, to service a building that could hold five thousand.
Lloyd Bodger took a quick look at his wristwatch while there was still sufficient elbow-room to lift his arm. Two minutes till eight P.M. Service began promptly on the hour. He gauged his nearness to the dais with a practiced eye, then let himself be wedged into place by the increasing pressure of urgent bodies about him. It would not do to remain in the rear of the hemispherical room, where he might lose some of the Speakster's words, words that might have direct bearing upon the next Vote; nor would it do to let himself stand too near the dais, from which central point he might find himself at the tail end of the voting line, should the Proposition Screens begin to glow during the Service. A decisive Vote could be made in ten seconds, but each Kinsman was allowed thirty. The Screen would only propose the bill for five minutes before the Count. That meant that Lloyd must be at least the tenth person in a line in order to be assured his chance to nock his Voteplate in the slot. He'd missed two of his allowable three non-Votes this quarter, already. It would not do to miss another.
The glow from the dome decreased, suddenly, as the center of the dais unfolded back into fifteen equal wedge-segments, like a blossoming flower, and the Speakster rose into view amid a solemn hush. Bright golden light made the white velvet robe shimmer like a slippery flame, and made the shadowy aspect of the cowl-hidden features all the more terrible. The golden light spilled upward from the surfaces of the fifteen triangular "petals", bathing the Speakster thoroughly in bright radiance, leaving the remainder of the Temple in even darker darkness by contrast.
The arms of the Speakster rose slowly, angling domeward over his unseen head, until the folds of the weighty sleeves slid back a trifle at the cuff, exposing the wax-white hands, fingers spread wide apart, palms toward the beginning of the dome-curve, as though warding off impending dangers. Lloyd shivered, suddenly, despite the suffocating warmth of the crowd. This would not be a regular Service. That was the Danger-stance. Unconsciously, he held his breath, listening, as the mass tension grew unbearably electric.
"There cannot be Service tonight!" thundered the Speakster. "We are polluted from within. It would be sacrilege to have Service with a traitor in our midst!" Then, over the rising gasp that arose from the multitude, "She has been traced to this holy place, in a fiendish attempt to lose herself among the masses, to hide her rottenness amid the healthy flesh of the Kinsmen! Remain in your places—!" cried the Speakster, as a short-lived Brownian Movement began in the close-packed mob. People froze in place at the peremptory shout. "The Goons have been alerted, and are even now converging through the arcades!" said the Speakster. A sigh of relief whispered like a concerted zephyr over the up-turned faces. "She will be found out, have no fear. When I depart and the Light-of-Day returns, you must exit through the arcade by which you entered. You will be checked by a squad of Goons on your way out. Remember, a good Kinsman has nothing to fear!"
The outstretched arms swung down until the pallid palms came firmly together before the Speakster's chest, the cowled head bowed low, and then the figure on the dais descended from sight, the stiff "petals" re-closing over the spot on which the Speakster had stood, and the golden light vanishing as the Light-of-Day sprang bluely into harsh life against the crystal dome. Lloyd turned obediently, as soon as movement was possible in the dispersing crowd, and started toward his point of entrance, the arcade that would lead him into his sector of the Hive.
Without warning, the Proposition Screens flickered on, and the crowd's movement jerked to a confused halt. Then, as though collectively realizing that there was time enough to be checked by the Goons after the Vote, people formed into neat lines, queuing up before the Vote Boxes that lined the walls.
Lloyd took another look at his watch. Five past eight. That gave him till ten past to arrive at the Vote Box. With mounting anxiety, he counted heads in the line before him. He was twelfth. If each person took the allotted thirty seconds—He'd miss his Vote, have to be hospitalized for Readjustment. He tried to stay calm as the line advanced.
With two minutes to go, he found four people before him. The first, a grey-suited man with very little hair, nocked his plate in the slot—Then stood and pondered. It was fully twenty-five seconds before he depressed one of the buttons in the Vote Box's interior, where his choice would remain secret. Another few seconds to retrieve his plate, and then a full six precious seconds while the next person, a skinny woman very near the compulsory retirement age, fumbled in a deep leather purse for her card. Andshepondered....
Sweat sprang out on Lloyd's forehead. There wouldn't be enough time. Therecouldn'tbe ... unless—
"Miss!" he said, to the back of the small blonde head in front of him. The girl spun about to face him, dark green eyes wide in fright, breath hissing between parted lips. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said, contritely. "It's just that—" It was terrible, telling such an awful confidence to a total stranger, but it was the only way to convince her quickly. "I've missed twice this quarter," he blurted. "Not my fault. I'm a good Kinsman, honestly. It was line-jams, both times. Too many people for too few Vote Boxes. You must believe me!"
"What—" she said, a little dazedly. "What canIdo?"
"Let me have your place in line!" begged Lloyd. "I've timed it. Less than a minute left till Count, and two ahead of me, including yourself.Pleasehelp me!"
"I—" she said, with a funny, almost hysterical smile. "I don't know why you should be so—" Then she stepped aside, swiftly. "Go ahead. Hurry!"
Lloyd leaped into the breach without even pausing to voice his thanks. As the young man before him stepped away, Lloyd jammed his plate into the slot, and shoved his fingers inside the handspace. A fumble, and he had a button, he didn't know which one. Pro was right, Con was left, but he just prodded it inward without checking its location. Then the light died on the screen, and his plate popped out of the slot. He caught it deftly, sighed in quavery relief, and turned to thank his benefactor. He saw her, trailing after the departing people toward one of the arcades, shuffling her feet, apparently in no hurry. Then an uncomfortable thought struck him, and he ran to catch up with her.
"Miss—!" he said, taking her arm. Again the brief look of fear on her features, then she smiled. It was a small, very tired smile. "You needn't thank me—" she began.
"I wasn't going to—" said Lloyd. Then, embarrassed, "I mean, ofcourseI'd thank you, but that isn't why I came after you. I just realized—Haveyoumissed any Votes this quarter? I'd hate to be the cause ofyourReadjustment...."
"There's no danger," she said softly, "of my getting in trouble for non-voting."
He suddenly remembered the words of the Speakster, and dropped the girl's hand as though it had burnt him. "You—You're the—"
"Please!" begged the girl, before his voice could rise in a warning shout to the crowd. "Don't give me away!"
"They'll get you anyhow," he said flatly, with a note of near-pity in his voice. "By rights, I should raise a cry right this instant, to save the Goons the trouble of checking all thegoodKinsmen." A secondary thought hit him, and he took a very short step backward. "And you're diseased. The longer you remain in contact with the crowd, the more likely a spread of the contagion."
"I'mnot!" she almost shouted, then clenched her jaws, and got control of herself. Bright moisture began to trickle from the corners of her eyes, and she dabbed angrily at the warm salty drops. "I was hurt, yes!" she said, suddenly pulling back the long sleeve of her bright green dress, for a brief moment. Lloyd saw the ragged, pink-edged cicatrix on the underside of her forearm, and winced. "It's healed," she said. "I didn'tneedthe hospital, don't you see?"
Lloyd saw, and stood there, his mind fumbling dizzily for a direction to take. The last straggling ends of the crowd were moving into the arcades, now. Lloyd took his bearings, saw that only one or two people were now headed for his own arcade, and began to back off in that direction, saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so terribly sorry. I must go, now."
She nodded, once, then turned her back on him, and stood, small and helpless, in the growing void that was the Temple proper. Lloyd turned from her and started toward his arcade. Then he stopped and looked back at her. Shewashealed, after all.... He remembered with a sense of shame the time he'd broken a finger, and hadn't reported for hospital assignment, because a favorite cowboy was at the neighborhood theatre that afternoon. He neverhadgone in, then, being fearful lest the examining doctors notice that he'd delayed. The finger had healed itself, a trifle crookedly, and Lloyd had never told anyone of his dereliction, not even his father. Especially not his father.
Suddenly, he turned and ran back to the girl. "Do they know you?" he said, fiercely, frightened by his own daring.
"Wh—Who?" gasped the girl, startled by his reappearance. "Whoknow me?" Then, catching his meaning, "The goons, you mean?" Lloyd nodded impatiently. "No, they don't. But they don't have to. I—I have no Voteplate."
"Can't you girls hang ontoanything?!" he muttered. "Don't tell meyoursfell in the sea from a Tourgyro?"
"You say that as though you know somebody whosedid," said the girl.
"My fiancee," he explained, adding, with an embarrassed grin, "I'll be twenty-five just after next Marriage Day. I found her in the phonebook listings."
"But—What'dshedo?" the girl persisted. "Without a Voteplate, she could be picked up any time, in the first Goon inspection that arose."
"Take this," he urged, pressing something into her hand. "Your arcade is third over from mine. When you get outside, wait. I'll meet you there and get this back. Don't fail me, please."
He spun about and dashed toward his arcade, leaving her standing in the center of the floor, staring dumbfounded at the flat metal plate in her hand. Trembling, she turned toward the indicated arch, and followed swiftly after the stragglers entering it, her perspiring fingers clamped rigidly upon the engraved face of the Voteplate.
CHAPTER 2
Lloyd didn't like Goons. He knew he was supposed to recognize in them the ultimate in police efficiency, but they still gave him chills. A Goon, a Governmental Opposer of Neutrality, was a fearful sight. All were of a size, equal to a micrometer-breadth, a monstrous eight feet of thick metal and ponderous wheels, bathed from base to apex in the blurry grey pulsations of their protective force-fields, through which no power on Earth could penetrate. The metal arms were multi-jointed and dextrous to a fantastic degree, despite the clumsy look of the thick tripodal fingers at the ends of the arms. The "eyes" were wide-set telelenses, a pair of them, to report back all they saw to the Brain itself, deep beneath the teeming streets of the Hive. And each Goon spoke with the cold, inflectionless tones of the Brain, the flatly indifferent voice that could only emanate from a mind of glowing vacuum tubes and magnetic fields. From any or all of a Goon's six fingertips could spring the dreaded Snapper Beam, an electronic refinement of vibrations that struck the human nervous system almost identically with the chemical effect of strychnine poisoning, except that a Snapper Beam worked instantly, and always fatally. A brush of the invisible force, and a man's face creased into the frenzied grin of a madman, his legs danced wildly, uncontrollably, and the muscles of his back contracted tightly, relentlessly, remorselessly, until his spine cracked in two.
Lloyd had never seen it employed, save in the theatres. Dispersal of insurrection by Goons was a popular theme in films. A mob could be efficiently halted by a sweeping Snapper Beam, to fall like broken puppets. Goons never lost a film battle. Or a real one.
"Name," said the Goon, as the woman in front of Lloyd moved quickly out of the arcade. Goons could not inflect. You had to sense their questions.
"Lloyd Bodger, Junior," said Lloyd, extending his Voteplate for perusal. The three fingers took the plate from his fingers, and slid it into a slot in the chest. A sharp click, and the plate was returned to him, his number now on file in the vast memory banks of the Brain.
"Your sector," said the Goon. With his Voteplate data on file, he would be hard put to tell a lie. Any discrepancy in his statements would go hard on him. He hoped, shakily, that the unknown girl had a sharp memory. She'd only have a few moments to memorize the information on the plate.
These thoughts flickered through Lloyd's mind in the split second between the Goon's second query and his outwardly calm response, "Hundred-Level, Angle One, Unit B."
Lloyd's sector was only one short of being the most important in the Hive. The President lived in Unit A, in the same Angle. Lloyd Bodger, Senior, was Secondary Speakster of the entire Hive. But Goons were no respecters of persons. And less so were they respecters of mere offspring of persons.
"Assignment," droned the Goon.
"Null," said Lloyd, indicating the question was inapplicable.
"Goal," the Goon sub-questioned.
"Secondary Speakster of the Hive by inheritance."
The Goon's arms suddenly dropped to its thick sides, it swiveled completely about-face, and rolled swiftly off toward the far end of the arcade. The interview was over, and it had gone, abruptly as that. No "Thanks for your time and trouble", or "You pass inspection", or "That will be all". Goons were built for basic efficiency, not for the subtler nuances of civilized conversation.
Outside the mouth of the arcade, Light-of-Day was still stark bright blue throughout the Hive. Light-of-Day was dimmed to Ultrablack at ten P.M. every night of the nine-day week save Temple Day, when it was left on until eleven-fifteen, giving time enough for the Kinsmen at the ten P.M. Service to return to their sectors. No one went out in Ultrablack. You could see nothing when Light-of-Day went out. A struck flame would burn in Ultrablack, but the light of the flame would not show. Only the Goons could see what went on, then. If going out during Ultrablack were absolutely necessary, as it sometimes was on the Governmental level, a Goon would come and take you to your destination. Being found upon the street after Ultrablack was a form of rebellion; you would then have to be hospitalized for Readjustment.
Just as this last thought was flitting across his mind, Lloyd saw the girl, standing uncertainly at the entrance to the arcade he'd sent her to, a solemn, green-clad figure in the midst of the converging people moving into the entrance toward the nine P.M. Service. Her face lighted up when she saw him, and Lloyd was disconcerted to note the tears that sprang to her eyes despite her welcoming smile. "How can I ever—?" she started, but a quick squeeze of his fingers on her arm stopped her.
"Not here," said Lloyd, awkwardly. "Come with me." She fell into step alongside him without question. He led the way to a bar near the inter-level lift. They said nothing to one another until they were seated in a secluded booth, and had pressed the drink-selector that would light alongside their booth-number behind the bar. They almost spoke, then, but the waiter showed up too quickly, and they had to wait until he'd checked their ages on the Voteplates and left.
"Why did you do it?" she said softly.
Lloyd made a grimace. "Because I'm a damned fool, I guess."
The girl nodded seriously. "You are, you know. Taking a risk like that—!Youmight have been detected, yourself."
Lloyd looked at her, puzzled. "Detected?"
"As a member of the movement, of course," she said. "You're the first I've been able to contact since my escape. The progress you've all made amazes me. Where in heaven did you people learn to duplicate Voteplates!? I couldn't believe it when the Goon passed me."
"Hold on—" said Lloyd, pressing his hand furiously hard upon hers where it lay on the smooth table top between them. "Don't say anymore, please. You've made an error. I amnota member of your movement." The girl's eyes widened in sudden fear.
"But—Why did you help me? Whoareyou?"
Lloyd sighed. "I've already answered your first question. And it is with the most abject embarrassment that I answer your second: I'm Lloyd Bodger, the Junior version, the only child of the Secondary Speakster of the Hive." He saw the utter dismay in her face, and added dryly, "Are you impressed?"
"Shattered is more like it," she said when she'd found her voice again. "But an extra Voteplate—"
"I can explain the plate," said Lloyd. "It belongs to my fiancee, Grace Horton. I was going to her place tonight, after Service, with it."
"But you said she'd dropped it—Oh. I see."
"Exactly. Lost in the sea, from a Tourgyro. The Goon in the 'gyro saw it happen, which was lucky for Grace. He relayed it instantly to the Brain, and when the 'gyro landed, another Goon was waiting at the field with a temporary pass for her. Another person, by the way, would have needed Readjustment, being so careless, but Grace, as my fiancee, carries just enough weight to get her over the humps. New Voteplates have to be approved through the President's office, of course. When this one came in, today, it was turned over to my father, who gave it to me. I'm not as official as the Goon who'd ordinarily deliver one of these, but even protocol bows to sentiment, now and then."
He suddenly curled the fingers of the hand beneath his own until they lay fisted in his palm. She looked up at him, then, sensing almost to the word what he was about to say. "Miss—You know I could turn you in for what you inadvertently told me, just now. I won't, though. You have enough counter-information on me to make things hot even for the son of an official."
"I wouldn't—!"
"Be that as it may," said Lloyd, "let me say something: Quit. Quit now. Get out of this movement, whatever it is. You can't win, you know. The Goons are invincible. And I hate to think of you, falling under a Snapper Beam."
"Death is death," the girl sighed. "One way or another."
He looked at her, genuinely at sea. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Miss. I only helped you avoid hospitalization because I myself—Well, let my reasons go. But you shouldn'tfeargoing. Sure, it's annoying to be laid up for awhile, out of the swing of things, but—"
The girl pulled her hand away. "You're joking," she said. "You must be joking. If you're truly the son of the Secondary Speakster, youmustknow the truth!"
"I still don't follow you," Lloyd said sincerely.
"Youdon'tknow!" the girl said, shaken. "You're really convinced that—Listen to me, listen carefully: Thereareno hospitals! There is no Readjustment! There is only death."
"You're out of your mind," Lloyd said, recoiling from her vehemence. "Of course there are hospitals. I'veseenthem—!"
"Sure," said the girl. "From a Tourgyro. Or in the movies. But have you everbeento one? Have you ever met anybody whoreturnedfrom one?"
"My dear girl," Lloyd protested, really growing concerned for her, "do you realize theoddsagainst meeting a hospital patient? With disease almost completely obliterated, and a civilization of ten million people—!"
"Exactly," said the girl, with a peculiar note of triumph. "Ten million people. Never so much more as ten million and one, and seldom any less. Doesn't that perturb you?"
"The wars—" Lloyd began.
"Please," the girl groaned, shaking her head. "Spare me the enlistment speeches. I know the tales of all the men lost in the battles every quarter, giving their lives in defense of the Hive. Except that therearen'tany wars, nor battles, any more! There's nothing out on the planet except wild animals and growing plants! We're the only ten million people on Earth!"
"That's impossible," said Lloyd. "It's childish to be so insular-minded. Our Hive is one of ten thousand such—"
"Have you seen another, evenoneother?"
"For what?" said Lloyd. "All the Hives are alike."
"They've really got you brain-washed, haven't they! You believe everything the Brain dictates, without question!"
"I have to," said Lloyd, with what he thought was irrefutable logic. "There's no way of checking things like—Well, like your story of no wars. I mean, can I be expected to check out ten million people to see if the number of war dead coincides with the total in the Brain?"
"No," said the girl. "You can't. Not so long as your movements are restricted to certain sectors, and you're told which street to use, which side of the street, which direction to walk, which hand to turn the knob with, which—"
"Those are only traffic rules," Lloyd objected. "Can you imagine ten million people all going to the same sector at the same time? It'd be disastrous."
"Sure," said the girl. "For the Brain. People might confer."
Lloyd shrugged and gave up. "I can see there's no dissuading you," he said regretfully. "I only hope that when you're finally caught—"
"They teach me the error of my ways?" she smiled tightly.
"I don't mean it with the inflectionyougive it," he said. "I really would like to see you get help. You need help, you know."
"The kind I need is the kind you gave me in The Temple," she said. "Illegal help. Shelter. Time to make plans. Time to figure out some way of telling the Hive what's happening to it!"
"You know I've gone farther than I should, already."
"I know," she said. She took the Voteplate from her handbag, and held it musingly in her fingers. "I really should keep this," she said, then saw the sudden anxiety in his eyes and relented. "Here, take it." She slid it under his hand. Lloyd palmed it gratefully. "Our movement could use a hammerlock on a higher-up," she said, almost wistfully. "But you're too nice a guy to put the screws on. It'd be a cruel way to show my gratitude for what you did tonight."
"I did nothing, really," Lloyd said. "I simply saw how fearful you were of the hospital, and didn't have the heart to turn you in."
"Wait," said the girl. Lloyd stopped speaking. She looked thoughtful, then leaned forward, very confidentially, and asked, "Does your father like you? Do you two get along?"
"What is this?" Lloyd demanded suspiciously. "Instant psychoanalysis?"
"Nothing like that," the girl snapped, exasperated. "I mean, does helikeyou, as a son, care whathappensto you?"
"Well," Lloyd said, slowly, "he'd probably beat my head in for what I pulled, tonight, with you.... But—yes, he does like me. And he cares about my welfare."
"Then do this one favor for me," said the girl. "When you get to your Unit tonight, tell him you feel rotten, all sick inside, and that you think you should be hospitalized."
"But why should I—?"
"Just tell him. And make it convincing. And, if he really cares about you—See what happens." She rose from her place. "It'll look funny if I leave alone. Walk me to the street?"
Once outside, she glanced about, uneasily. "It's after ten. Got to find a place to hide before Ultrablack."
"But listen—!" Lloyd said, abruptly realizing the grim night that lay in store for her, with blinding blackness like a palpable pall in the streets, and only Goons rolling through the empty streets. "You've got to havesomeplaceto go!"
"Isthere someplace? Without a Voteplate?" she said with weary rhetoric. "I think not. Thanks. Goodnight. And goodbye."
She started off down the street. Lloyd hesitated a moment then rushed after her. "Wait,I'llhide you."
"Why should you take such a risk, for me?" she said.
"It's not for you," Lloyd said, telling as the full truth something that was only part of the whole. "It's for me. Purely selfish. I risk more if you're caught tonight. When they question you, under truth drugs, about your escape from the Temple—and I'm surethathas them curious—you will be unable to avoid implicating me."
"Is—Is that your only reason? Your own skin?" she said.
"Yes," he said, forcing conviction into the word.
She shrugged and took his arm. "A fugitive can't afford to be choosy. I have no prospect of escapebutyou. I'll let you hide me ... if it'll make you feel safer."
Lloyd nodded, and started toward the lift that would take the two of them up to the Hundred-Level. It was only as they got aboard, and he'd keyed the lift-switch with his Voteplate, that he thought to ask, "By the way—What's your name?"
"Andra," she said. "Andra Corby."
"A nice name. I like it," said Lloyd. "I wasn't sure if you'd tell me your name."
Andra shrugged. "It'll be in tomorrow's papers, anyway."
Lloyd looked at her uncomfortably, but she was staring straight ahead at the grillwork gate of the lift.
CHAPTER 3
Grace Horton appraised herself in the mirror, and was not pleased with what she saw. "Face it, Grace," she said aloud. "You are positively hopeless." She tilted her head to one side. "Well, nearly hopeless." Her eyes were good, that was something. Wide, gray and thickly lashed, they were her best feature. Her nose was just too snub to be pert. Her mouth, though her lips were generous, and her teeth well-aligned, had too much slack at the outer edges. She either held it in a perpetual smile—"An easy way to be mistaken for an idiot," she remarked bitterly—or it sagged. Her hair, an unfortunate mustard-and-brass shade, would not hold a curl for more than two hours at the outside. "All I need," she decided ruefully, "is a brand-new head."
Grace leaned away from the mirror to consult the alarm clock which lay almost hidden behind an impressive array of cosmetics. Five till eleven. "He's not coming," she said to her image. "Give it up girl. He said he'd come, and he probably meant it when he said it, but he's not coming." She turned from the mirror and began to undress, beside the single three-quarter-sized bed. "And why should he come?" she asked herself tiredly. "He doesn't love you. He never—to his credit, damn it—said he did, either. Hive Law requires that all males shall marry by the age of twenty-five, or be taken for Readjustment. Bachelors are not good for racial survival, unquote. Unwed girls may list themselves in the classified section of the phone book, along with their qualifications, then start sweating it out by the phone. So I did, so he called me, so we're engaged. But that doesn't mean we have to like it. Or thathehas to, anyhow. And I'm not sure thatIdo."
Grace toyed a moment with the idea of submitting herself for Readjustment, then gave it up. "A new face wouldn't help," she decided. "What I need is a new outlook. Besides, what have I got to crab about? I'm engaged, I'm only twenty-four, and someday I'll be the wife of Secondary Speakster of the Hive. So hurray forme," she added, listlessly, as she flipped the coverlet back, and hopped into bed. She lay there in the glaring Light-of-Day, waiting for Ultrablack. When it came, in a soundless rush of darkness, she spoke just once more. "Butwhydidn't he come!"
CHAPTER 4
"Didn't you tell your future daughter-in-law she'd been reassigned to a new Temple Day?" asked the President. "She went last night, regardless."
The man addressed, Lloyd Bodger, Senior, scratched his head. "Seems to me I did, Fred. I could have forgotten, of course."
Fredric Stanton, President and Prime Speakster of the Hive, nodded and shrugged the topic away. "Probably hated to miss a chance to be with your boy. Nice kid, that Lloyd."
"Thanks," Bodger said dryly, keeping a firm eye on his superior. Stanton was buttering him up to something, he knew. "Full of youthful spirits, too, your boy. I can easily understand why he might—well—grow overly romantic."
"Come to the point, Fred," said Bodger. "Lloyd's behavior can't hurt you unless it hits your only sensitive area: your public image. So what's he done? Drunk too much, pinched a waitress's rump, scratched a four-letter word on a Temple?"
"Don't take this too lightly, fellow Speakster," said Stanton, purposefully. "Running the Hive is like walking on eggs in hot cleats. You're either careful or things get a mite sticky."
"We always have the Goons," said Bodger.
"A Hive full of ten million back-broken corpses isn't much of a domain," snapped the President. "Have you forgotten that extra-marital peccadillos are frowned upon in Hive society? People who play around get hospitalized, quick."
"So what has all this to do with my son?" demanded Bodger.
"He was seen, last night, bringing his fiancee up to this level, shortly before Ultrablack."
Bodger sighed, then nodded slowly and leaned back in his chair. "And the girl?" he said grimly.
"So far as I know, she's still on your premises. I think you had better have a talk with her. And your son."
"I'm sorry, Fred," said Bodger. "I'll make certain there is no recurrence."
"You'd better," said the President. "If I topple, you're on the next pedestal down. I might drag you along, just by inertia." He turned and left the office with cold dignity.
"Crap!" the elder Bodger spat aloud. "I'vetoldthat kid to toe the mark in public!"
CHAPTER 5
Bodger had only a short distance to walk to Unit B from his office. His temper, despite his efforts at self-control, was seething dangerously when he entered his foyer. He crossed the mammoth parlor toward the archway at its rear, where a short corridor led to the sleeping quarters. Bodger arrived at the door of his son's bedroom. Then, with his hand upon the knob, he froze, and a ghastly pallor spread itself across his rugged features.
A hand came up swiftly to his stomach, holding it, pressing inward against the sudden spasm he had felt, and he stepped swiftly across the few remaining feet of carpeted hallway to the door of his own room, through it, and swiftly into his personal bathroom, locking the thick door behind him. The room was swimming like a thing seen through warm oil as he slid open the mirrored panel of the medicine-chest and removed a large jar of pale granulated crystals. Violently nauseated, he managed to unscrew the lid and dump a handful of the crystals into the water tumbler. He ran the warm water into the tumbler—it would dissolve the crystals faster—and drank the now-glutinous solution. Then the tumbler fell from his weak, perspiring fingers and smashed into spicules in the basin. He took no notice, hands rigid against the rim of the basin, shoulders shaking uncontrollably, his large, grey-thatched head sunken wearily upon his chest. He stood like that for two minutes, until the room began to settle down, and its outlines took on solidity once more.
"A close one," he muttered, aloud.
When the eyes that met his in the glass were no longer bleared with sick pain, he combed his hair neatly, and impatiently began to remove his sweat-soaked shirt and necktie. Before returning to his bedroom to change into fresh dry garments, he slid the mirrored panel closed. It clicked sharply and locked. Countersunk into the tiled wall, there was no indication that such a space existed behind it. Only Bodger, Senior, knew which tiles to depress in which order to open that panel. In a disease-free society, a medicine-chest was taboo; it implied that its user had no faith in the Government-run hospitals. Bodger went into his bedroom, dropping the damp shirt and tie atop the clothes hamper in the closet. There was an ancient leather bag, with shoulder-strap, on the closet floor. Bodger carried this out into the room, opened the flap.
When a small light glowed on the indicator panel, he lifted a short metal rod, and played the end of it slowly back and forth just below his fleshy ribs. The light flickered on and off steadily. Bodger looked sharply at the needle of a dial beside the light. "Thank heaven," he whispered, and returned case and contents to the closet. Then, after laying out a set of dry things, he considered a moment, ran a hand testily over his stomach region, and grunted in annoyance. He was still slightly over-wrought; he could feel the juices inside him itching to spurt into his bloodstream and arouse him into his erstwhile pitch of anger. It wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all.
Angered at his own infirmity, he nevertheless set the alarm for an hour's time ahead, in case he dozed, then lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.
In the adjoining room, where the door to the hallway was securely bolted, Lloyd Bodger, Junior, stood up near the wall, in a stance he'd held for many minutes, the side of his head pressed tightly against the plastic paneling. "I think he's lying down," he whispered. "I heard the bedsprings creak."
Andra Corby, her face lowered against the knees which she hugged to her chest on the bed, shivered a bit, then straightened her long, smooth legs until she was simply pillow-propped against the headboard once more, and her arms had refolded across her breast. "Are you sure?" she asked tautly. "The longer I stay here, the more frightened I become."
Lloyd spun to face her, almost angrily. "Will youstopthat relentless nobility! I'm doing this for myownskin, remember? I don't care what happens to you; I care what happens tomeif something happens to you!"
"Your father," she said, enunciating with icy calm and slow clarity, "is going tohearyou...."
Lloyd controlled himself, his fists knotting at his sides.
Seeing he was relaxing, Andra said, a little less frigidly, "I thought—I thought he was coming inhere."
"He stopped outside my door, all right ..." Lloyd mused. "Then went to his room in a rush. I don't get it."
He listened some more at the wall. Behind him, Andra giggled, suddenly. He glanced at her. "What—?"
"I just thought—What if your father's on the other side, listening to hear whatyou'redoing. I'm just picturing two grown men, frowning in earnest concentration, their ears separated by a few inches of plastic, and it's funny."
"Not if you're correct, it isn't," said Lloyd, and Andra stopped smiling. "As soon as he hears you, the jig's up."
"Maybe—" She leaned forward with eager hope. "Maybe it would be agoodthing, Lloyd. He's a powerful man in the Hive. If he knew your problem, he could use his influence to do something, couldn't he?"
"My father loves me, sure," said Lloyd, with a wry quirk to his lips. "But I don't think he loves anything so much as his position in our society. My consorting with a fugitive might put the kibosh on the next election."
Just then the phone rang and Lloyd couldn't avoid knocking Andra to the floor in his effort to get the receiver off the hook before the bell could shatter the silence once more.
"Hello?" he said, extending an upright palm toward Andra to beg her continued silence.
"Lloyd?" said a subdued, tense female voice.
"Grace!" he said, remembering his promise to come by with her card. "What—What do you want?"
"I've got to see you, Lloyd," she said. "About last night."
"When?" he asked.
"As soon as you can make it."
"Well—Maybe in ..." Lloyd peered across the room at his bureau clock. Almost noon. Non-essential lift usage precluded until after the twelve-to-one lunch period. If he hurried, he could key the lift-switch before the ban. Lifts in use were never disempowered. "If I catch the lift, fifteen minutes. Otherwise not till after one."
"... All right."
Lloyd grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. Andra stood up, apparently unharmed, and slid into her shoes. "Where are we going?" she asked, smoothing her dress.
Lloyd looked at her. He hadn't considered—"I guess you'd better come with me," he said. "I'd hate you caught in the house. In my bedroom especially."
There were seconds to spare when he closed the gate and thumbed Grace's level, the ninety-third. Anyone was permitted to travel to a level beneath their own. To go higher, you needed a duly authorized Voteplate, or an invitation from a higher-level dweller. The lift dropped smoothly down inside the shaft. Half-way to Grace's level, a red light glowed on the level-indicator. When they reached their getting-off place, the buttons would function no more until one o'clock. It saved needless crowding if lunching workers remained on their own levels. Otherwise, if a line were too long, a worker might be tempted to try his luck lower down, and if too many decided simultaneously, the bland flow of human traffic might be imbalanced, agglomerated beyond the capacity of the transportation systems. Inefficiency would result, with people returning late to their work, restaurants having too much leftover food, or not enough to go around. The Hive was too delicately geared for imbalance. So the lifts went off during lunch.
"Grace Horton must be trusted," Andra said suddenly. "Look, Lloyd," she clutched his arm, forcing him to meet her gaze and listen. "If she hasn't found out, fine. Even Goons can't find out what a person doesn't know. But if shehasfound out someone else used her cards—And calledyou, instead of reporting it to the authorities.... Then she can be trusted to hear about me."
"I hope you're right," said Lloyd. The gate opened.
"We'll never find out standing here," said Andra. "Come on, Lloyd." She started out ahead of him. He pondered the courage of this small blonde girl, then felt a wave of shame at his own cowardice. He was in this up to his earlobes already. No amount of explaining could ever make up his hours of ignoring the basic laws of the Hive. And he simultaneously realized two things: If Andra's theories were all wrong, he would merely be Readjusted and returned to his life same as before. And if they were correct—What difference did it makehowlong he dallied with the Hive's opposition? You could only be destroyed once, and even his delay in shouting the alarm when he'd recognized Andra as the fugitive was grounds for a medical check-up.
"What the hell," Lloyd said miserably to himself. He was no safer standing on the cross-sector walk than in the depths of dark intrigue with Andra.
CHAPTER 6
"BODGER!...Bodger!"...
A hand was shaking his shoulder roughly, the elder Bodger realized with annoyance. His eyes focused on the face of Fredric Stanton. Bodger shrugged the hand away, and sat up groggily.
"As I always suspected," he said, brushing at the crusted salt on his chest, "the Hive can't run an hour without me at the helm." He got to his feet and stretched.
Stanton, frowning at his sarcasm, let it pass without comment; he had a more important topic to discuss. "The tally of last evening's Vote just came in to my office," he said tightly. "It was a near-complete poll, only a few thousand missing."
Bodger, still trying to get his mind readjusted to the idea of being wide awake again, started toward the bathroom and a warm shower, muttering, "Hooray for progress. Is that any reason to waken a man—"
"Bodger—!"
He stopped at the open door to the bathroom and turned his head toward the President. "All right, out with it." Without knowing how, exactly, Bodger knew it was about Lloyd again. And worse than before.
Stanton reached inside his suitjacket and withdrew a folded legal paper, a black-lettered stiff document with an illuminated margin of pale orange. "I have here," he said, watching Bodger's face, "an order for Readjustment. It just came up the tube from the Brain. Do I have to read you the name of the Kinsman on it?"
"Good lord," Bodger whispered. "What—What could he possibly have done to—?"
"As I said, there was a Vote last night. The proposition was a simple one: "Shall, in the interests of good government, the draft age be lowered to fifteen?" You want to know how Lloyd voted?"
"Notcon?! He has more brains than to—I'vetoldhim all the catch-phrases that demand aproVote. Is there any possibility of—?"
"Error?" Stanton smiled bitterly. "You of all people should know better. It was Lloyd's plate in the slot when the Vote was cast, all right. The Brain can't be wrong on that. The alternative solutions to the problem—alternatives to his making adeliberateVote against the interests of good government, I mean—are very few: One—He was not paying attention to the screen. Two—He struck theconbutton by accident. Three—He let somebody else use his plate. Any one of which reasons is initselfgrounds for Readjustment!"
"Fred, you wouldn't...."
"Of course not, Bodger. I had the incident erased from the memory circuits immediately. This is the only copy of his Readjustment order. You can keep it, tear it up—Frameit, if you like! That's not why I'm here."
"You don't have to tell me," Bodger sighed. "In the past sixteen hours, the son of the Secondary Speakster has blithely violated the social and political ethics of the Hive, to the extent that his destruction—"
"Bodger!" Stanton flared. "You have a rotten habit of—"
"Pretty words don't alleviate the truth of the situation.Youknow, andIknow, what Readjustment is! A one-way trip down the incinerator chute!"
"All right, we know it! So shut up about it, and let's keep it to ourselves! What I'm here to find out is—What the hell are you going to do about this idiot son of yours? This istwicehe's had to be covered for, in a damned short time, Bodger. I can't spend my time rescuing Lloyd from something I'm starting to think he may well deserve!"
"Aw, Fred, you wouldn't let—"
"The hell Iwouldn't! I like Lloyd, and I like you, but if it starts shaking up my position in the Hive, thetwoof you can go to blazes! Do I make myself clear?"
"I—I'll talk to him, Fred, really I will."
"You mean youhaven't!?" Stanton exploded. "What's the idea of coming home here in the middle of the day, then? I thought you were going to—" He took a closer look at the other man, then scowled. "Say, are you all right, Bodger? Your color's kind of funny. You're not ...sick?"
"Of course not!" Bodger snapped. "I'mshaken, if you must know. I came right home here to chew Lloyd out for last night's episode with the Horton girl, and when I couldn't find him, I got so mad that I thought I'd better lie down and cool off. I don't want a scene if I meet him in a public place.That wouldget the word out in a hurry, wouldn't it!"
"Still, you look kind of—" Stanton halted, and gave the subject up with a sigh. "Maybe I'd be, too, if I got a couple of jolts like you did. Okay, Bodger. See you back at the office, later." He turned and went out.
Bodger stood listening until he heard the front door close. Then, still shirtless, he went into the hallway and threw open the door of Lloyd's room without knocking. It was empty. But there was the elusive memory of a sweet fragrance still hovering in the air there.
Bodger swore softly, and returned to his own room to shower and dress. He had some heavy thinking to do.
When, minutes later, he was refreshed, dressed, and ready to appear in public again, he'd made a decision. He needed to discover the root of Lloyd's dangerous behavior. And the likely person to know something about it would be Lloyd's fiancee, Grace Horton.
Bodger left his Unit and started toward the lift. It was still short of one o'clock, but the Voteplate of the Secondary Speakster cut through a lot of mechanical red tape.
The lift arrived at Hundred-Level within seconds after his nocking his plate beside the call-button. He got aboard and began the descent toward Ninety-Three.
CHAPTER 7
Robert Lennick leaned far back in his swivel chair, and sighed a deep sigh at the ceiling, being careful it would not be heard by the party on the other end of the wire.
"Now, listen, sweetheart," he said. "You are good. Got that? Good, with a capital tremendous. But you don't click in urban dramas. You're too—" He didn't want to say tall, or gigantic, though these words were more readily at tongue-tip. "—too Junoesque for the parts we're casting.... No, I mean it. You just—Well, you're just not the housewifetype, darling!"
The speaker crackled in his ear for another minute, and Lennick sat and studied the piled-up scripts in his in-box with wearily narrowed eyes. When his chance came again, he said, "No, not today. I'm sorry, Lona, really I am.... It's impossible, that's why.... All right, if you have to know—We're shooting Fredric Stanton, that's why—"
The speaker's reply to the phrase made some of the color wash out of Lennick's smooth-shaven face, and this time he interrupted with a snarl. "You better watch it, Lona, baby! A smartaleck pun like that can get you sent to the hospital. You know damned well I mean we're going to photograph him.... Okay, but simmer down, huh?!... Okay, baby, I will.... Yes, as soon asanything, anything atallin your line comes by my desk.... Word of honor.... Sure thing.... Yeah, that'd be lovely. We'll do it sometime.... Okay, Lona—Lona.... I said—.... O-kay, Lona!" He spat out the last words, and clamped the phone into the cradle with vicious pleasure. "Dumb broad!" he mumbled, then got up and opened the door to his anteroom.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Frank," he said to the tall, gangly youth who rose from a chrome-and-plastic chair and came into the main office.
The man called Frank sank into a chair and fiddled idly with a button on his shirt until Lennick had the door closed again. When the youthful producer was once more back in his swivel chair, eyeing his visitor, Frank lost his casual air and locked eyes with him, disconcertingly steady blue eyes, and Lennick had to fight an impulse to wince.
"Trouble?" he said, after a moment.
Frank knitted his brows, and cupped his upper lip in the moist curve of his lower before replying, without emotion, "Depends." He fiddled with the button again, then gave it up and stood. He preferred pacing as he talked. "It's—Well, it's about Andra, Bob."
Lennick stiffened. "Theygother...?" His relief was only a conditional relaxation when the other man shook his head; he was keyed to tighten up again without notice. "So whereisshe?Howis she?"
"Fine, to answer your second question. I don't know the answer to the first, though I could make some guesses. The thing is—We better get the word out to the others not to try and contact her."
"Notto—!?" said Lennick, stunned. "But she needs help, bad. She has to hide until we can—!... Frank, what's the matter? You look so damned funny!"
"Okay, I'll level with you, Bob." Frank stood at the front of the desk and leaned his hands on the blotter, staring down at the anxious face of his friend. "Last night, after her escape, Andra tried to hide in the Temple, up on ninety-five. The Goons were right after her, Bob. There wasn't even any Service because of her. Every person in that Temple was checked—onebyone—for Voteplates. Shehadone, Bob. She gotout."
"That's crazy!" Lennick gasped. "Where in hell—? Frank, Isawthem collect her Voteplate after the accident. She couldn't have gotten it back. And she couldn't have aspare, I know, so—?" He saw the uneasiness still in the man Frank's features, and was quiet. "There'smore...?"
"After her escape," Frank said flatly, taking no joy in telling the tale, "She met a man, outside the arcade, went with him for cocktails, then up to his level. That's the last she was seen, Bob. It was the Hundred-Level. None of us are authorized to go that high without escort."
"But who the hell didAndraknow on the top?" Bob blurted. "She's given autographs to a few higher-ups, but—"
"It was Lloyd Bodger, Junior, Bob. They acted like old friends.Nowdo you see why I think it's unwise if she's contacted?"
Lennick suddenly surged from his chair and nearly tore the shirtfront from his visitor in an angry fist, as he yanked the other's face close to his own. "You can't mean that about Andra, Frank. Youknowher! You've worked with her—And I ... I know her better than anyone, Frank. She's not a traitor. She wouldn't betray us."
"I wish," said Frank, calmly ignoring the enraged aspect of Lennick's attitude, "you'd put your heart back where it belongs and think it over just once with your brains...."
Bright beads of moisture suddenly appeared in Lennick's eyes, and he released his grasp of the other man's shirt and sank down into his chair, burying his face upon his arms. "There's an explanation," he mumbled into the blotter. "I know there is. She wouldn't—" he lifted his head, suddenly hopeful. "Frank, we're stillhere! If she told all she knew, we'd be atomized by now, right?"
Frank looked uncertain. "Maybe. At least—It's a point in her favor. I don't know. You've gotmeshook, now." He sat back down and pondered, shaking his head slowly back and forth. "If sheisn'thollering for the Goons—What's she doing with Junior? A guy like that doesn't take perfect strangers up to his place, does he?"
"I don't believe that part at all," said Lennick. "She may've gotten off before he did."
"The indicator went right on up without stopping. My witness'll swear to it. Right to top level, just before Ultrablack."
"Maybe she's under arrest, going for questioning," Lennick parried weakly. "It could be, you know."
"Why up there? GoonscarryTruth Serum. Besides, the witness further states that they didn't look like anything but a couple of chummy dates. Real chummy."
"How about if—Maybe he washelpingher? Andra's not a bad looker.... If she turned on the tears—"
"You've been reading your own scripts, friend," said Frank, not unkindly. "This is reality we're dealing with, not never-never-land on film. This Lloyd Bodger, Junior isnotthe boy-most-likely when it comes to helping anti-Hive people. Face it, Bob. Something's up."
"So why, I repeat, aren't we all on our way down the chute costumes, cameras and all?"
"That's the only thing that doesn't make sense," Frank admitted. "And the only thing that prevents me hiring a sniper to knock her off."
"You'd do that?" said Bob. "To Andra?"
"For the time being, we'll let it ride," Frank decided on the doorstep. "It may be handing ourselves over on a silver salver, but—We'll let it ride. Till we hear from her. And she'd better make it convincing."
"I know she'd tell me the truth—Whatever it is," said Bob, then regretted his rhetorical lapse into doubt. But Frank let it pass, and simply said, with a fleeting smile of compassion, "If I were you, I'd take that Goon's advice, from yesterday when Andra was carted off: Get engaged to somebody else."
"I want to talk to her," Bob insisted.
"If it was your neck, fine. Talk. But it's all our necks. I can't risk it."
"Youcould fix it, Frank.Youcould find out where she is, a way to get there. Come along, even, so I don't fumble the ball. Please, Frank? I've got to know...."
"Bob, if you knew what you were asking—!" Then the taut, painful set of his friend's features cracked away some of his veneer, and he slumped wearily against the jamb, fiddling with that button again. "So maybe insanity's catching, or something," he said after a pause.
"You'll help me?"
"I'm not absolutely sure I can, Bob. But—Tell you what.... Buzz me about nine tonight. I might have an idea."
"Thanks," Bob said. "You're—You're a nice guy, Frank."
Frank turned and walked across the anteroom and out, without replying. Robert Lennick settled back in the swivel chair again, this time not at all relaxed.
CHAPTER 8
"Now, in this scene, sir, you're instructing the Temples through the Speaksters, in your capacity as Prime Speakster," Robert Lennick was explaining, as Fredric Stanton nodded over the pages of script.
Frank, the director, stood by impatiently while his boss explained the setup of the scene they were to shoot.
"I think I understand," Stanton said finally. "Where do I go, now?" An aide led the President toward the waiting set. When he was out of earshot, Frank inclined his head toward Lennick, and whispered, "Never mind buzzing me tonight, Bob. Meet me here, at your office, just before Ultrablack."
"Before Ultrablack?!" Lennick said, aghast. "How will we—?"
"Leave it to me, okay?" said Frank, impatiently. "I'll get you to Andra, wherever she is. I want to see her myself."
Lennick could only stand stupefied as the tall, angular form of the director moved off toward the waiting cameras and crew. Then he grunted in frustration and turned back toward his office. The presence of Stanton made his mind return to the day before, when Andra was captured by the Goons, and it bothered him to dwell on it. An accident. A stupid accident on the set. She'd entered to do her scene, had caught her foot on a hidden guy-wire, and had fallen, still holding the tray of drinks she'd been supposed to serve to her co-stars. And the ragged edge of a shattered goblet had raked across her forearm. Not deep, not at all. Just a long, blood-oozing scratch. The Goons had been there almost on the instant, commandeering her Voteplate, taking her off for "treatment." And she'd looked to him for help, help he could not give, dared not give. And when she saw she was suddenly friendless—She'd broken and run. The Goons hadn't expected such a reaction. Before they could relay the situation to the Brain and get their instructions, Andra had dodged out by a corridor too narrow for them to follow, in all their ponderous girth and height, and had vanished completely. Later that day, a Goon Squad had come to the studio and widened the corridor, and one other like it, to preclude such a thing ever occurring again.
Lennick was worried at Andra's not contacting him. She might think he couldn't be trusted, the way he'd let the Goons take her. But what did she expect a man to do against armed Goons? She'd only have had the dubious pleasure of seeing him dance to death with a hideous smile on his face, while a Snapper Beam broke his spine in two.
It made Lennick's head hurt to think about it, so when he got to his office, he started reading some new scripts. In a society where the possession of medicine is a crime, it didn't pay to have a headache. Or to let on you had one. But he couldn't erase the look he'd seen in her eyes when they were taking her away.
CHAPTER 9
Arriving at the door to Grace Horton's Unit, Lloyd paused with his finger not quite pressing the bell. "This won't be pleasant," he warned. "I've never done anything like this before—getting involved with you, I mean—and I don't think Grace is going to like it. I can't much blame her, either."
He stopped as the door opened. Grace Horton stood there, clad only in a fragile garment of light silk, her up-turned face warm and eager. Beyond her, Lloyd saw the tray with a bottle, ice, and two glasses. There was soft music playing from somewhere in the Unit. He felt his face go red.
"Grace—I want you to meet Andra, Andra Corby."
Grace looked past him for the first time, and saw the other woman. A tiny spasmodic reaction tightened her face and some of the color drained away. Then she said, with rigid composure, "Come in. Come in, won't you?" Unconsciously, she held the folds of her garment tightly at the throat with one hand, as if to make her covering more substantial, as she stepped aside to let them pass.
"Excuse me," she blurted suddenly, after shutting the door, and rushed into her bedroom. The music emanating from there cut off, abruptly, and then Grace reappeared in the doorway, her lips curled in a smile that would not quite come off. "I thought—I thought you'd miss the lift," she said, in an obvious extemporization that was embarrassing to all three persons. "That's why I'm—not quite dressed, yet. I thought I'd be ready after one, when you—" Her eyes fell on the tray, with its solitary preparation for two, and her voice choked off in the middle of a syllable.
Then she took a breath, walked into the parlor, and sat down gracefully on the arm of the sofa. "Well," she said brightly, "nowwhat'll we lie about?!"
"I'm so very sorry, Grace," Lloyd said contritely. "I ... I would'vetoldyou Andra was coming, if I'd known. We only decided after I'd hung up—"
Grace's eyebrows rose just a fraction. "Andra was at your home when I called?" She rose, suddenly. "I think I'd better get another glass from the kitchen. I have the feeling we're all of us going to need strength."
Lloyd and Andra looked at one another, then sat gloomily down in armchairs deliberately far apart, and waited for Grace's return. When she came back with the third glass, she was a bit more composed.
"Now," said Grace, after draining half her glass, "we can talk."
There was a silence, then Lloyd broke it, awkwardly, with, "You said—You wanted to see me here, right away."
"I called you about the Temple Service last night, Lloyd—I see by your face that youdoknow something about it. Good. Maybe you can tell me what—Don't look so shaken."
"I—Okay. You caught me off-balance, I guess."
"I must have. You look like you were just kicked in the stomach. Well, then, tell me: What happened last night?"
"How did you knowanythinghappened?" Lloyd asked.
"A call from the top level this morning. I was warned not to attend on the wrong night in the future, and told I was being let off the hook—though they phrased it more politely, of course—because I was engaged to the son of the Secondary Speakster."
"Did you—? What did you say? To their call?" Lloyd asked, knotting up inside.
Grace folded her arms and leaned back. "I'm no dope, Lloyd. I knew you had my Voteplate, and were bringing it to me last night. That is—" she interjected with chagrin "—Ithoughtyou'd be over last night with it. When you didn't come, and I gotthiscall, from top level, I kind of figured you were in dutch, somehow, and played along. I apologized for my error, and promised it wouldn't happen again—I see, by the way you two just let your breaths out, that I did the right thing.... OrdidI? I take it Andra was the one who used my plate?" Lloyd nodded, miserably.
Grace thought this over, watching the two of them, then leaned forward and touched Lloyd's fingers where they curled tightly around the end of the chair arm. "Apparently, I have salvaged everybody's chestnuts. Would it be asking too much if I wondered what the hell my reasons were?"
"I'll explain," Lloyd said. "That is, as best I can. My motivations are still a bit obscure even to myself."
Grace flicked a glance at Andra, sitting small and lovely and feminine in the chair. "Arethey!" she said, a spark of intuition putting her almost with complete accuracy ahead of Lloyd's still-untold tale. "Maybe I can figure them out for you after I hear your story, then."
"Okay, Grace," Lloyd said gratefully, missing her inflection. He proceeded to tell her the story, from the time he'd gone to the Temple up until the present moment, eliding only the fact that Andra had spent the night in his room. He used the phrase "up at my Unit" and hoped it wouldn't be proved any deeper than that. When he'd finished, Grace looked dazed.
"You mean—Youbelieveall that, Lloyd?" she said. "I used to have great respect for your sanity, but—This thing about no hospitals, about bumping off the Kinsmen to keep the population level down—It's crazy, Lloyd. Look, your father's one jump from the Presidency. Has he ever, in all the years of your life, evenhintedsuch a thing to you?"
"No, of course not, but—"
"Yet you take the word of a fugitive, an obvious mental case who doesn't know what's good for her—!"
"MayIsay something in my defense?!" Andra protested.
"You may not," said Grace, then turned back to Lloyd as though Andra had ceased to exist anymore. "How could a man with your intelligence—"
"Hold it!" Lloyd snapped. "Hold it right there. I'm not a complete fool, Grace. Sure I had doubts. But there are some things Andra said that bother me. And I thought up a few puzzlers myself. Like war. Casualties in battle account for a high rate of the deaths reported in the Hive, right? So it occurred to me—How come we're not using theGoonsto fight in the war? They're indestructible, they're armed with our most potent weapons—Yet we let men and boys be shipped out of here to fight. It doesn't make sense."
"Of course it does!" Grace retorted. "You think that question never occurred to anyone but you, Lloyd Bodger? We don't use Goons in war for the same reason they didn't use atomic weapons after the Second World War of last century: Theotherside has them, and might fight back with them."
"But—Sowhat?!" Lloyd exploded. "What's the difference if our people are killed by other soldier's bullets or by enemy Goons?"
"There's—There'slessslaughter this way," Grace said, with an intensity that sounded lame even to her.
"All right, we'll let that part go," Lloyd said, in no mental shape for argument. "There are other things—"
"Forget them," Grace said, vehemently. "Whatever your reasons, or reasoning, last night, you have another problem to face: What are you going to do with this girl? The longer you stick with her, the slimmer your excuses will sound when she's caught. In fact, the only hope you have is to turn her in, right now, and pray your Readjustment isn't too painful."
"But don't you see, Grace—!" Lloyd blurted. "What if she'sright?! On that chance, no matter how silly you think her theory is—a theory that has led others to join her movement, remember—do I dare take theriskof turning her in?"
Grace stared at him and digested this aspect of the situation slowly. "I—I guess itwouldbe kind of late, when the top level sent me the report that your Readjustment hadn't taken, or something, to say 'Well, he told me so!'."
The door chimes pealed, then, startling them all.
"You expecting anyone else?" asked Lloyd.
"No, unless your friend the fugitive was seen coming in here."
As they spoke, Andra had gone to a window and peeked out from behind the curtain. When she turned to face them again, her face was grey with strain and apprehension.
"Lloyd—" she said. "It's your father!"
CHAPTER 10
Under the blazing arc-lights on the set, President Stanton played himself to the hilt, nearing the climactic, "Vote for the sake of the Kinsmen! Vote for the freedom of the Temples! Vote for the life of the Hive!" Just as he launched into this most important part of the script, a page boy made his labyrinthine way on tiptoe through the cables and reflectors and sound equipment to the chair of the director, and whispered urgently in his ear. Frank got to his feet immediately.
"Cut!" he called.
Stanton looked up in some surprise, and it was a very baffled cameraman who finally found enough strength to cut off his machine. The set was dead quiet as Stanton arose from behind the prop-desk and looked in unpleasant speculation at the source of the interruption.
Frank cleared his throat, and said, "I'm sorry. The scene was going well, sir; that isn't why I cut it. You have a phone call, in Mr. Lennick's office."