Chapter Five
WHAT FREENESS MEANS TO THE AMFEDS: FOR FURTHER READING AND DISCUSSION
“Something for nothing is perfectly acceptable. The most important people get ahead by luck, you know. They are in the right place at the right time. Once a person understands Freeness, there is no limit to how far he can go!”
Remarks to a newsy reporter by Charley Chance, twelfth minister of Bu-Free
Sunday, August 27, 2605
Garbage Day minus five began in the Black Box of Democracy with Onesayer Edward rising at his usual time before dawn. This morning, for the first time in more than three centuries, he would not perform the prayer ritual. I will never return to the prayer loft! he thought as he pulled a clean robe over his head. It is finished!
New thoughts whirled through Onesayer’s brain as he rode the elevator to the second level and moto-shoed the short distance to the Bureau Monitoring Room. I will disfigure his face after killing him. Then if I can get one of my robes on him … Doubt returned to his consciousness, and Onesayer wondered if Uncle Rosy really occupied the Master’s chair. Whoever it is, he thought. I’ll get him.
“Peace be upon you, Onesayer,” a sayerman said as Onesayer entered the room. Onesayer nodded without noticing who had spoken. He rolled directly to the broadcasting alcove located along a side wall. It was shift-change time, and sayermen arrived and left, exchanging blessings and touching together their class rings.
Oblivious to this activity, Onesayer mentoed the minicam broadcaster as he entered the alcove: One-five-six-three-oh-nine-four-one-Ogg. He glanced at a computer sheet on President Ogg, then took a seat on a high stool and stared intently at a round telescreen as it flickered to life.
Onesayer watched the screen as an immense black man wearing a bright green leisure suit short-stepped onto the running board of Autocopter One, then turned to retrieve a briefcase from the expando-cart which lifted it to his level.
President Ogg heard his satin suit rustle as he moved. He placed the case behind the single copter seat, short-stepped into the cockpit and sat down. From the helipad on top of his penthouse, the President could see the morning sun beginning to do its dawn-peek over a dusty horizon. Its golden-orange rays across New City gave a reddish silhouette to mountains in the distance. He enjoyed taking a heli-spin at this time of day, had often commented on it by saying, “The morning is as new and bright as the best products in our American Federation!”
Onesayer spoke from the Bureau Monitoring Room: “Good morning, President Ogg.”
Ogg jumped. The voice seemed to come from somewhere inside the cockpit. “Who said that?” Ogg demanded, sitting straight up and looking around nervously. He saw no one.
“My name is not important,” the voice said.
Onesayer smiled as he watched President Ogg reach for his radiophone. Onesayer mentoed a force-field gun, and Ogg felt invisible restraint against his forearm, preventing him from lifting the receiver.
“There is no need for that,” the voice said.
“Great Suffering Depression!” Ogg cursed angrily. He took a deep breath, released his fingers from the receiver and pulled his arm back.
“Not to be alarmed, Mr. President,” Onesayer said. “The Black Box of Democracy would have a word with you.”
“The Black Box? What sort of prank is this?”
Ogg noted that the voice did not sound male or female. It could be a syntho-voiced meckie. Or someone speaking through a voice scrambler. He pinched the thin skin on the back of one hand to be certain he was awake. It hurt.
“There is an evil electoral conspiracy, Mr. President. In violation of the American Federation of Freeness Constitution.”
“Oh?”
“An interesting dinner party will take place this evening, at the home of General Muñoz.”
“Muñoz? What’s he up to?”
“He is the leader of the conspiracy.”
“I will need evidence,” the President said, “enough to appoint an investigating committee.” His gaze darted around the cockpit.
“You will have the evidence, Mr. President, because you should always be kept informed. But there will be no investigating committee.”
“We MUST have a thorough investigation,” Ogg insisted, his voice fervent, “with reports, meetings, and photographs.” Ogg wiped perspiration from his brow. “We’ll set up a crisis bureau, employing thousands of people!”
“No time for that! They plan to rig Tuesday’s election! Muñoz will take power the same day!”
“But we can’t take action without reports,” Ogg lamented as he shifted in his seat. His satin suit rustled. “It’s not possible!”
“Leave it to us, Mr. President. And do not be alarmed at what you see happening.”
“What will that be?”
“Do not be impatient. First, there is a bit of evidence for you to observe, as required in the by-laws of the Black Box of Democracy.”
Ogg rubbed the thumb and forefinger of one hand together nervously.
“The Muñoz dinner party,” the voice said. “In the glovebox of your autocopter is a palm-held video receiver. Flip it on at six-thirty this evening.”
President Ogg located the receiver, held it in one hand. It was blue plastic and chrome, had one red switch and a tiny darkened screen. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll do that.”
“They will say nothing incriminating at the table,” the voice said. “But watch their gestures and expressions. Pay particular attention to their eyes.”
“This doesn’t sound like evidence to me!”
“They thought-speak, Mr. President, with the aid of brain-implanted transceivers.”
“My Rosenbloom! I’ve never heard of such—”
“They also have a powerful subliminal transmitting device. At this moment, it is changing the voting preferences of a majority of the electorate.”
“Muñoz as a punch-in victor?”
“Right. We have been on full alert for some time now. But we could not take action until they committed the overt act of changing votes. Just planning to do it was no crime.”
“I see. No I don’t! Muñoz isn’t clever enough for this!”
“Dr. Hudson’s doing. Remember last year in your office when he explained the subliminal receiving features of every consumer brain implant? They were to make Harmak and Home Video advertisements more effective, he said.”
“I remember. But how did you …”
“They found another use for Hudson’s discoveries. I must caution you not to tell anyone about our conversation, Mr. President.” The voice fell silent.
Ogg listened to the quiet in the cockpit, and a feeling of urgency came over him. He watched the golden orange layers of dawn give way to pale blue daylight.
Whose voice was that? he thought. God’s?
O O O
Dr. Hudson attended church services alone Sunday morning. Since the church building was overflowing, Hudson and hundreds of others sat in cars out in the parking lot, listening to the sermon through drive-in speakers.
“Uncle Rosy and God are side-by-side in the Happy Shopping Ground,” the minister’s metallic voice said.
Hudson turned a knob on the speaker to lower the volume, then glanced around nervously at the occupants of nearby cars. Did anyone see me do that? he thought.
O O O
Across town in Building B of the Bu-Tech Space Center, General Muñoz and Colonel Peebles stood in a sixth-floor briefing room. They squinted at one another against the glare of the midmorning sun which flashed through a nearby window. Peebles mentoed a window shade, watched it roll halfway down until the sun’s rays were covered.
“Hudson’s people did a nice job, wouldn’t you say?” General Muñoz asked, looking through a clear glassplex barrier to admire a three-dimensional galactic model.
“Adequate,” Colonel Peebles said, fingering a strand of gold braid which encircled one shoulder epaulet and hung at the side of his Space Patrol uniform.
“Adequate? It’s identical to our real model next door, except in this case the planets and other heavenly bodies don’t follow the impulses of parent bodies. These little spheres move in accordance with our fabricated control room instructions.”
“Very nice,” Peebles agreed. He smiled as he looked at the model. Miniature comets and meteors made their way along varying courses in slow motion, trailing emerald green, blue, or orange flames against a black, star-encrusted backdrop.
Muñoz glanced at the briefing room’s digital wallclock, noted the time: AM 10:26:33. Below that, another digital reader showed the Estimated Time of Arrival of the garbage comet:
Looking back at the squeak of a door, they watched two dark blue-uniformed military policemen escort Tom Javik into the room. The MPs saluted, did a moto-boot about-face and left. Javik folded his arms across his chest, glanced around defiantly.
“Mr. Javik!” General Muñoz exclaimed, caressing his orange mustache. “So nice that you could make it!” The voice was honey-sweet but carried with it a threatening undertone.
“Our brawler has a cut over his eye,” Peebles observed. An I-told-you-so smile touched his mouth as he added, “They had some difficulty restraining him last night at the Sky Ballroom.”
General Muñoz rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he studied Javik. He noted a torn and wrinkled tunic, fearless and defiant deeply-set blue eyes. “We’ll order you more suitable clothing,” Muñoz said. “But then I’m getting ahead of myself. You know who I am?”
“Yes,” Javik said, meeting the tiny General’s gaze. “And I’ve … met … Major Peebles.”
“It’s Colonel now,” Peebles said stiffly. Javik heard a familiar whine to the voice.
“Getting directly to the reason you are here,” Muñoz said, “I am prepared to reinstate your commission in the American Federation Space Patrol. As a First Lieutenant. An Akron class cruiser is being prepared for the mission right now.”
“Fast ship,” Javik said. “And long-range.” He narrowed his eyes warily, asked, “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Muñoz replied. “Your assignment is Project Romo.”
“Who’s heading up this mission?”
“Captain Sidney Malloy.”
Javik’s eyes opened wide. “Huh?… Not the same Sidney Malloy I know?”
“One and the same.”
Javik laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Your crippled little friend will be commander in name only. Operationally, you will be in charge.” Muñoz touched the burnished gold cross which hung from his neck.
Peebles stared at the ceiling.
“I like Sid,” Javik said, “but what in the hell is going on? The cockpit of an Akron cruiser is no place for him!”
“There are reasons,” Muñoz said, staring at a trash can across the room. “Command reasons.” He gestured toward the galactic model, adding, “You leave tomorrow. Malloy will meet—”
“I haven’t accepted the assignment yet,” Javik pointed out, smiling faintly.
“True enough,” Muñoz said. “If you don’t accept, we’ll find someone to replace you.”
Javik twisted his face, trying to think.
“Malloy goes in any event,” Muñoz said. “He will go separately to Saint Elba, receiving therapy there before joining you … or someone else. There are no therapy facilities here.”
“This is crazy,” Javik said.
“As if you’re in a position to be choosy,” Peebles sneered, staring disdainfully at Javik.
Muñoz glared at his adjutant, then motioned to the galactic model again and explained: “That is Earth,” he said, pointing to a tiny sphere in the galactic model. The sphere began to pulsate with a white light at the General’s mento-command. “And there, in orbit between the Earth and Moon at L5, is the therapy habitat of Saint Elba.” A pulsating blue light marked the orbiter’s location.
“Saint Elba is the first recharging stop,” Colonel Peebles explained. “It is there that Malloy will be picked up, along with two mass driver units and fire probes, all partially assembled.”
“Partially assembled?” Javik said.
“Due to a shortage of time,” Muñoz said, “assembly crews will accompany you on the journey, doing their work along the way.”
“How many people?”
“Two hundred. All cappies. They’ll be released to rescue craft when the mass drivers are complete.”
“I see. Fire probes, huh? What am I supposed to hook onto?”
Muñoz activated a red blip adjacent to the Earth sphere. “This represents your ship, the Shamrock Five,” he explained. The blip moved to Saint Elba, then continued off into space. “From Saint Elba you and Malloy will proceed in the direction of the Ikor Constellation, along a heading of thirty-two-point-five degrees from the Columbarian Plane. Three additional recharging stops will be necessary before rendezvous. Charging stations are now being established along the route.” Javik noted three pulsating yellow lights, watched the red blip pause at each.
Javik furrowed his brow. “I don’t see what … I mean, it’s clear space beyond that for millions of kilometers.”
“You’ll be changing course twenty-six thousand kilometers beyond the last recharging station, along a new heading of ninety-two-point-one degrees C.P. This will conserve the E-Cells by taking advantage of strong space currents in the region.”
“I’m familiar with the area,” Javik said, watching the red blip change direction along its new course.
Javik glanced at the impact countdown wallboard, asked, “What day will it be at the time of the last course change?”
“Thursday,” Colonel Peebles said, glancing at a palm-held note screen. “Eighteen hundred thirty-six hours to be precise.”
“The object of rendezvous is THERE!” Muñoz said, revealing excitement in his voice. The largest of several comets in the Columbarian Quadrant began to pulsate. “That celestial body is on a collision course with our mining base in the Romo asteroid group, threatening our principal source of Argonium One.”
“E-Cell gas,” Javik remarked.
“Argonium One’s use is classified,” Peebles said, officiously.
Javik narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to the galactic model. “That … celestial body, as you call it … looks like a comet to me.”
Muñoz hesitated, then said: “Correct.”
“There are rumors of a comet headed toward Earth, General. Some say it’s our own garbage.”
“Nonsense,” Muñoz said firmly. “Utter nonsense.” He mentoed a time-advance button to speed up the motions in the galactic model. “I’m eliminating your ship,” he explained, “and doing a fast-forward on the celestial body. The blinking green light is our Romo mining base.”
The comet sped across space in a blur and hit the Romo asteroids dead center. Javik shielded his eyes as a bright, silent explosion filled the model with tiny fragments of smoldering matter.
“Any questions?” Muñoz asked. He stared sidelong at Javik, noted Javik was staring down the bridge of his nose at the model.
Javik mumbled something.
“What was that?” Muñoz asked.
“Project Boomerang,” Javik said. He smiled defiantly. “That’s a better name for the project. After all, it is our own garbage coming back.”
“Not true!” Muñoz huffed.
Colonel Peebles glanced at Javik haughtily and said, “Bu-Tech studied photographic plates taken by deep space gamma ray cameras. The celestial body’s—”
“You mean the comet’s?” Javik asked, glaring ferociously.
“Very well. The comet’s composition is quite standard … primordial noble gases and the like, with a fusion-hardened nucleus of—”
“Bull!” Javik said. The smile returned.
“Look,” Peebles said, his voice trembling with anger. “Experts plotted its course with coordinate measurements of Right Ascension and Declination … obtained by angular offsets to the adjacent field stars. That is the course you see here.” Peebles nodded toward the galactic model.
“Do you really understand any of that?” Javik asked.
“Certainly!” Peebles’s pale blue eyes peered icily at Javik.
“Well, your galactic model is wrong. I think it’s intentionally wrong. And your impact board refers to the comet’s ETA here, not at Romo.”
“We don’t have to listen to this!” Peebles huffed, glancing at Muñoz for support. Peebles mentoed the window shade, and it snapped up, throwing a flash of sunlight in Javik’s eyes.
Squinting, Javik flushed with anger and said to Peebles, “Listen, you wet-behind-the-ears armchair …”
“STOP THIS! BOTH OF YOU!” Muñoz thundered He glared at Peebles, then mentoed the window shade down, returning the coolness of shadow to Javik’s face.
“I accept the assignment,” Javik said, “with a couple of provisos.”
Muñoz took a deep breath, tried to exude calmness. “Which are?”
“Firstly, two cases of Chambertin Clos de Bez wine pellets are to be placed aboard. … Vintage twenty-five-seventy-two.”
“Done,” Muñoz said.
“Rather expensive taste for a brawler,” Peebles sniffed. “A jug of White Rippo sounds more suitable.”
Javik disregarded the remark, said, “And I want Brent Stafford assigned to command his own ship … at least a destroyer.”
“Who?” Muñoz asked.
“Our brawler’s co-pilot during his garbage detail,” Peebles said.
“And during the Atheist Wars,” Javik said. “He deserves his own command, General … somewhere in the galaxy.”
“All right,” Muñoz agreed. “Take care of it, Allen.” Muñoz furrowed his brow, faced Javik. “Keep your cappy friend out of the way during the flight. Give him innocuous little tasks …”
“He’s in command, General,” Javik said, smiling.
“You know what I mean. Common sense must prevail.”
“Right, General. Boy, this is the damnedest mission I’ve ever seen!”
“We’re depending on you, Lieutenant Javik. We can’t use remote-control pilotry on a deep space mission of this importance. If we had an equipment malfunction, with a meteor storm in the way … why, remote repairs by signal from Earth would be impossible.”
“I know,” Javik said. “One more thing … I’ll need papers to get Malloy free on Saint Elba.”
“You’ll have them,” Muñoz said, glancing at his adjutant.
“I want them signed by you, General,” Javik said. “Not by an aide.” Javik smiled viciously in Peebles’s direction and saw his comment hit home as Peebles’s eyes flashed angrily.
Slipping into his unspoken conversation mode, Muñoz mentoed to Peebles: We must cooperate, don’t you see? I have to send Malloy, and this Javik knows him best.… THE MISSION MUST GO SMOOTHLY! Muñoz sighed deeply. “Very well,” he said. “Prepare the papers for my signature, Allen.”
Peebles rolled to a corner desk and began to prepare the forms.
“And give me something to get into Therapy Detention right now,” Javik said, throwing the words at Peebles as if they were a command. “I’m going over to see Sid. It’s less than a block away.”
Peebles’s gaze met that of Muñoz.
Muñoz nodded. “Don’t say anything to Malloy now about his captain’s commission. Be discreet, Javik. We don’t want word of this getting out.” Muñoz pressed a set of Lieutenant’s bars into Javik’s palm.
“Yes sir.”
Presently, the forms were prepared and signed. As Javik took them, Muñoz said: “Report to Conditioning by thirteen hundred hours, Lieutenant Javik. Room C five-thirty-four.”
Javik saluted and rolled toward the door.
Looking at Peebles, General Muñoz mentoed: Is the Madame ready?
Almost. Peebles smiled his characteristically cruel smile. Hudson told them to sharpen her knives.
Good. She will have two heads to sever!
* * *
“We must imagine now,” Sayer Superior Lin-Ti said, “for we have no record of what happened in the Realm of Magic, except so far as they spoke to humans.”
Lin-Ti closed his eyes. “Picture a realm far across the galaxy, with no land or water mass, populated by bodiless beings. They were at a party, and from all around came the sounds of laughter and merriment. For this was a comet party—a real event at which all the citizens of the realm watched while the fleshcarriers learned their lesson.
“‘Ha!’ one said. ‘That fool Malloy is captain of their ship, He’ll find a way to botch the mission. Mark my words!’
“‘Right,’ another said. ‘He’ll take some ‘heroic’ action to blow their pitiful little plan. Ah, but we have chosen him well—a nobody with delusions of grandeur!’”
“Other beings spoke of similar matters,” Lin-Ti said, “and all agreed they had selected a delightful way to have fun. These beings were not malicious: they just wanted to have a good time.…”
* * *
Lastsayer Steven paced the hallway nervously outside Onesayer’s suite. Almost eleven, he thought. Could Onesayer have forgotten my first audience with the Master?
He mentoed Onesayer’s doorbuzzer, watched the button go in and then return as the chime sounded. There was no answer.
Lastsayer turned dejectedly to leave, considered going to the audience alone. Dare I? he wondered. He rolled partway down the hall toward the elevator bank.
“Lastsayer!” a boisterous voice called out. “Do come back!”
Lastsayer turned, saw Onesayer Edward peeking around the corner of the doorjamb with a silly leer on his face. He wore no hood, exposing the shaved head of the Sayerhood.
Lastsayer began rolling back. “Onesayer!” he said. “It is three minutes before the hour!”
“So it is. So it is.” Onesayer motioned with one hand. “Come in for a moment. I must tidy up before we go.”
Thinking that Onesayer’s voice sounded odd, Lastsayer arrived at the doorway with an excited protest: “But we will be late!”
“Don’t worry about it. The Master can’t tell time.”
“What?”
Onesayer smiled as he said, “I was just kidding. I’ll explain our lateness to him. He won’t blame you.” Onesayer short-stepped to one side, motioned for the other man to enter.
Stunned, Lastsayer looked up at the taller Onesayer. “You used apostrophic words!” Lastsayer said.
“What? Oh yes. You’re … uh … you are quite correct. Thank you for pointing that out to me.”
Lastsayer touched his onyx ring to Onesayer’s as he rolled into the suite. “Peace be upon you,” Lastsayer said.
Onesayer returned the blessing, fumbled in his pocket for something.
“You look tired,” Lastsayer said, noting faint lines around Onesayer’s large olive eyes. “And you do not sound the same.”
Onesayer laughed as he rolled through the foyer into the dining area. “I was doing my Uncle Rosy impressions before you arrived. Guess I lost track of my own voice.”
“Is that permitted?” Lastsayer looked around the dining room module, noted Greek urns on a blue slate floor. A long marble dining table in the center of the room was bathed in sunlight from an overhead solar relay panel. Somewhere, in another room, a bird chirped.
“I found no specific rule prohibiting it in the Sayers’ Manual,” Onesayer said, using the full resonant tone of Uncle Rosy.
Frowning uneasily, Lastsayer said, “I feel out of place asking this, but are you well?”
“Of course I am well! A couple of Happy Pills, no more!”
“Forgive me for asking, Onesayer.”
“All is forgiven! Now relax and listen to my impression. Fivesayer says it is very good.”
“I do not believe we have time. The audience with …”
But Onesayer was not listening. He clasped both hands in front of his waist in a very dignified fashion and said in the tone of Uncle Rosy, “You have much to learn, Onesayer Edward. You understand it will be a while before I step down and allow you to become Master … all the details remaining to resolve.…” He paused and looked fully into the smooth face of the younger sayerman. Lastsayer stared back with a worried expression. “Pretty good, eh?” Onesayer asked, in his own voice.
“I have only heard tapes. I was hoping to meet the Master in person this morning.”
Onesayer smiled. “A bit of sarcasm! I like the way you think, youngsayer! I like the way you think!”
“Thank you, Onesayer. Now can we—”
“Is something else bothering you, Lastsayer? Other than being a few minutes late?”
“Since you ask, I’m disturbed … better to say concerned … at the way you mimic the Master.”
Onesayer’s tone became decidedly hostile. “Oh you are, are you?” He moto-shoed toward a side doorway, paused to glare back at Lastsayer.
“It occurs to me that Uncle Rosy should be informed of this, Onesayer. A strict interpretation of the Sayerman’s Code of Ethics.…”
“Hang the code!”
“This might be a test, Onesayer. A test of my loyalty. How am I to know?”
“Inform him, then!” Onesayer yelled. He rolled through the doorway to another room, calling back, “Inform away!”
Lastsayer followed and caught up with the elder sayerman in the living room module, a bright room with deep blue shag carpeting and throw pillow furniture. “Wait, Onesayer. I have not yet had my first audience with the Master! I will not say anything because I do not feel qualified to make judgments yet.”
“You have much to learn, Lastsayer,” Onesayer said in the voice of Uncle Rosy. He smiled wryly.
Lastsayer felt frightened, furrowed his brow. “You do appear tired, Onesayer,” he said. “There are lines around your eyes. Possibly we could postpone the aud—”
“Lines you say?” Appearing startled, Onesayer rubbed a middle finger beneath his right eye and snapped: “I have no lines!”
“I would suggest rest, Onesayer. Things will appear better to you afterward.”
“You SUGGEST rest, do you?” Onesayer’s voice was high-pitched, near cracking. “A Lastsayer does not SUGGEST anything to a Onesayer!”
Lastsayer’s jaw dropped. He rolled back half a meter. “Excuse me,” he said. “I am very sorry.”
“Wait here,” Onesayer ordered angrily. He gathered his robe in a very dignified fashion and swept out of the room.
I said too much, Lastsayer thought dejectedly. Uneasily, he looked around the room, noting a brown-and-gold sayer’s edition of Quotations from Uncle Rosy on a sidetable. He picked up the book and manually turned a sheet of rice paper to Uncle Rosy’s picture.
Lastsayer nearly dropped the book in astonishment. The picture had been defaced! Someone had penned in lambchop sideburns and a short goatee on the Master’s face! The sacrilege of such a thing! He closed the volume, returning it to its place on the table.
Best not to say anything about this, he thought, moving away from the table. Such occurrences may be commonplace here.
In the bathroom module, Onesayer peered into the grooming machine mirror. A terrified face looked back. Lines, he thought, rubbing the skin around his eyes. Shallow, barely discernible lines were to the sides and below each eye. They had not been there the day before. He was sure of it.
He recalled smashing the Uncle Rosy idol the evening before. This was how it happened with Sixsayer Robert before he died, Onesayer thought. It started with a few lines.…
Onesayer slammed his fist down on the sink, felt pain shoot through his hand. So soon, he thought. How could it happen so soon?
As he turned away from the mirror, a thought raced through his mind. Uncle Rosy knew of his disloyalty and was trying to kill him! But I’ll get him first! Onesayer thought.
O O O
Sleep voices, at the edge of Sidney’s consciousness:
“Malloy doesn’t know about the killer meckie yet.”
“Ah, but he will learn of it soon enough … when the Montreal Slasher gives him a neck full of steel!”
“Ingenious, the way these fleshcarriers destroy one another.… Imagine that … an entity which is programmed to kill! It has no other function!”
“Their ingenuity … as you call it … is moronic in comparison with our garbage comet!”
Sidney dreamed he and Javik were in the command cockpit of a space warship. Suddenly they turned and saw two long knives approaching through the hatchway. Swish … swish … swish-swish-swish! A faceless being controlled the weapons, and Sidney was terrified of the entity he could not see.
The dream-Javik drew his service revolver and fired. But the knives kept coming. Closer and closer. Swishing and darting through the air.
Fwoosh! A blade severed Javik’s head. It fell to the floor with a dull, distant thud. With a twisted and unusable arm, Sidney could do little to defend himself. It would be over in seconds. Sidney sensed relief ahead … a nothingness beckoning to him across the cosmos.…
“Wake up, Malloy! The morning’s almost gone!”
Sidney felt a strong arm shaking his shoulder. He opened one eye and turned his face up to see a ruddy-faced male attendant looking down at him. The white-smocked attendant was young and muscular, with tiny rat-like dark eyes.
“A lady’s here to see you,” the attendant said.
“What is this place?” Sidney asked. He used his good hand to brush tousled curls of black hair off his forehead.
“You’re in the Hotel Ritz-Broadway,” the attendant sneered. “And I’m your private manservant! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? THIS IS THERAPY DETENTION, PAL! YOU’RE SCHEDULED TO LEAVE FOR THE ORBITER TOMORROW!” The attendant shook his head scornfully.
Sidney rolled over on the cot to turn his face away. He curled his legs into a fetal position. Every muscle ached, especially those in direct contact with the unsympathetic cot. The grand mal seizure of the previous evening had left him with the fatigue of a thousand sleepless nights. The left side of his face felt numb, and his left arm and left-hand fingers were contorted horribly. He saw bones almost popping out, stretching their skin to the limit. Taut muscles appeared ready to snap. He tried to straighten the fingers, could not.
“You guys that get special treatment really bum me,” the attendant said. “All the other applicants have been to Sunday services this morning, but not you!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sidney mumbled.
“Somebody called in with a Presidential code … said you were to await a visitor. What are you, Malloy? A bigwig of some sort? Well it won’t keep you off the orbiter, pal. Nothing will!”
Leave me alone, Sidney thought. Just leave me alone.
“Come on, fella,” the attendant said, again shaking Sidney’s shoulder.
“Go away. I don’t want to see anybody.” Sidney’s deformed arm twitched as he spoke, then jerked violently. He grabbed it with his good hand, took a deep, determined breath.
“The lady’s a looker,” the attendant said, short-stepping around the cot to the side Sidney faced.
Sidney did not reply. He turned away from the attendant. Carla, he thought. I can’t let her see me like this. Sidney recalled what Javik had done for him the night before, wondered if he was all right.
“Hey, maybe the lady CAN figure a way to keep you off the therapy orbiter,” the attendant said. “You’d better smarten up and talk to her. Once they get you out there in space, you can forget about coming back.”
I’d rather face that than Carla, Sidney thought. He turned away once more and closed his eyes.
“All right,” the attendant said, weary of the argument. “Suit yourself.”
Sidney heard the whir of departing moto-shoes. He opened his eyes and looked across rows of empty cots, then turned his head the other way to see additional rows. He was in the middle of a large sleeping room, and the surrounding sameness reminded him of his desk in Central Forms. Noticing a plastitag around his right wrist, he read it:
Malloy, S./Client No. 165632029
Maybe Carla can get me out of here, he thought. But he made no effort to get up or to cry out. A door slammed. Echoing quiet dominated the room.
O O O
After the meeting with General Muñoz, Javik changed to casual Space Patrol togs. A high overhead sun cast distorted, short shadows of Javik’s body as he rolled up the long ramp to Bu-Med’s Detention Center Building shortly before noon.
Carla was leaving the building as Javik entered. She smiled attentively, and to Javik she seemed particularly receptive to him.
Attractive woman, Javik thought. And vaguely familiar.…
Now there’s the sort of man I should pursue, Carla thought as she rolled down the ramp. Instead of wasting my time with Sidney. This one’s really in the Space Patrol.
After presenting his pass at five checkstations inside the building, Javik found himself facing the rat-eyed attendant in charge of Sidney’s sleeping room. The attendant was seated at a small desk at the end of an eighteenth floor hallway.
“Another one to see Malloy?” the attendant said as he examined the pass. “Forget it, mister. He won’t see anybody.”
“I’ll go in and see for myself,” Javik said, retrieving the pass.
“Not permitted. You can only see him in a glassplexed visiting area.”
“Do you see the signature on this pass?” Javik said forcefully, holding the pass only centimeters from the attendant’s face. “General Arturo Muñoz!”
“Uh, yes. I noticed that.”
“And you know who he is, I presume?”
“Of course, but …”
“Show me the way,” Javik said. “Unless you want to explain to the General why you wouldn’t let me through.”
“No, of course not.” The attendant was flustered. He thought for a moment, then rose and said, “This way, please.”
Designating a room several moto-paces away, the attendant opened the door to it. He started to enter with Javik, but Javik told him to wait outside.
The attendant followed the instruction, although it obviously made him uncomfortable to do so.
Javik mentoed the door shut behind him.
The sleeping room was large, and at first scan appeared empty. Smelling woodsy sweetness, Javik looked up to see the fine mist of air freshener as it dropped from ceiling nozzles. Presently he made out a solitary form huddled fetally on a cot near the room’s center.
“Sid,” Javik called out as he rolled along an aisle between cots. “Hey, Sid. That you, buddy?”
The form stirred. It rolled over to face Javik, exposing a twisted, unrecognizable face.
“Oh, I’m sorry.…” Javik caught himself as he recognized half the face. “Hey, Sid,” Javik said as he reached the cot. “How ya doin’?”
“Tom! You shouldn’t be …” Sidney felt self-conscious under Javik’s stare and turned away. “Leave me, Tom. Please.”
“Good news, Sid. You’re assigned to a space cruiser with me! I’m a First Louie now!” Javik sat on an adjacent cot, stared at Sidney’s back.
“Don’t humor me,” Sidney whined. “I’m no kid.”
“Honest, Sid. General Muñoz signed an authorization. After you’re treated on Elba, he says I can pick you up. You’ll be on Elba tomorrow. We blast off from there Tuesday.”
“Really?” Sidney said, not turning around.
“I can’t give you any mission details now, and you’re not to mention it to anyone. But take my word. It’s legit. Look at this pass here. See that signature?”
Sidney took the slip of paper with his good hand and read. “Hey!” he said. “This is signed by General Muñoz! Isn’t he the Bu-Mil Min—”
“You got it, buddy.” Javik retrieved the pass, then patted Sidney’s back like an older brother. “You and me on a big mission, Sid! We used to dream this day would come!”
“What’s the assignment?”
“Classified for now. Our ship’s the Shamrock Five. It’s a beauty, pal!”
“You asked for ME? Re-a-ll-y?”
“Yeah, sure. Listen, Sid, I gotta go. I’ll see ya on Elba!”
“This is fantastic!” Sidney said, turning the good side of his face up to Javik, with the twisted part concealed beneath a forearm.
After Javik left, Sidney recalled the nightmare he had suffered that morning. The vision had prophesied correctly that he and Javik would be on the same ship. But those terrible knives … Sidney assured himself that this part of the vision would not happen.
O O O
A nice way to spend Sunday evening, General Muñoz thought. After dinner I’ll call far a game of Knave Table.…
Muñoz sat on a pillow at the head of a walnut-grained plastic banquet table with his eyes closed. One tiny hand rested on the burnished gold cross that dangled from his neck. He smiled serenely and listened while his dinner guests took their seats in the candlelit dining room module. On the inside of his eyelids, a video weather transmission revealed Afrikari blanketed by dark AmFed-made clouds. It had been this way since just after Friday’s meeting with the Alafin, thus rendering their telescope useless. The General was pleased.
He opened his eyes, spread a white lace napkin across his lap. Looking around the table, he smiled and nodded to each of the eight men and four women as they placed napkins on their own laps. These were the hand-picked members of his inner circle, a group whose loyalty was unquestioned. Muñoz knew every thought they made in his presence. And they knew his, since each had been given the ultimate gift, an implanted mento transceiver.
Unknown to anyone at the table, President Ogg watched them intently at that moment from his study, using the palm-held video receiver given him by the Black Box of Democracy. Thought-speak, Ogg thought. The voice said they thought-speak.
“Good evening.” Muñoz said. He raised one hand, causing meckie-arms in front of each plate to pour red wine into crystal goblets. The General glanced for a moment toward a great fireplace along one wall, studied a large gold cross which stretched from the mantle to the ceiling. Along the mantletop were his favorite war trophies, gold and silver mementos inlaid with precious stones. Candlelight flickered and danced on the cross and on the trophies. He considered mentoing the fireplace but decided against it. The evening was warm.
General Muñoz lifted his wine goblet, sloshed wine and peered through the crystal at the drip pattern made by the liquid as it ran down the inside of the goblet. He smelled the bouquet, tasted.
“Magnificent!” he said, watching the guests as they raised their goblets. He nodded to Dr. Hudson on his immediate right, mento-addressed the gathering: Election programming has been initiated. I selected fifty-seven-point-three-six percent as my portion of the vote.
Good choice, Hudson mentoed. He pushed his eyeglasses forward to scratch the bridge of his nose.
Allen and I are going to my country condo tomorrow, Muñoz mentoed. An early celebration, you might say!
“Excellent wine,” a dark-haired woman at the other end of the table said. “A LaTour, I believe?”
“You are quite correct, Miss Stevens,” Muñoz replied.
Congratulations, General, she mentoed while raising her glass in toast. Soon you will be President of the American Federation of Freeness! “A toast!” she said aloud. “I propose a toast to the general for his hospitality!”
“Thank you,” Muñoz said, raising his glass. And a toast to each of you, he mentoed happily, the future ministers in MY council!
They drank and laughed and spoke of harmless things for several minutes. Then the center of the table opened up, with its walnut-grained plastic panels sliding down into the surface. An oblong-shaped conveyor track appeared, carrying a variety of dishes which moved slowly around the table. The conveyor stopped and started, following mento-commands given by the diners.
Colonel Peebles sat to the General’s immediate left. He watched a meckie-arm as it piled honey-basted Peking Goose, Mandarin Pancakes and plum sauce on his plate. The meckie-arm spread plum sauce on Peebles’ pancake with a scallion brush, then dropped bits of goose and scallion on the pancake and rolled it up.
That will be enough for now, the light-eating Peebles mentoed. The conveyor clicked into motion, stopping at the next diner.
General Muñoz nibbled on a piece of gooseskin, tasting the pungent bite of spices. Suddenly he dropped his gooseskin and stared wide-eyed at a trash can near the fireplace. A piece of paper fluttered in the air over the can!
“Leave me alone!” Muñoz yelled, putting his hands up and recoiling. “Leave me alone!”
“What’s wrong, General?” Hudson asked.
“There!” Muñoz said, pointing at the trash can. “There!”
But before Hudson and the others could turn their heads, the piece of paper, had fallen back into the can. “Didn’t anyone see it?” Muñoz wailed. Realizing they had not, Muñoz buried his face in his hands and felt his pulse thump wildly.
“What was it, General?” Colonel Peebles asked. He read General Muñoz’s thoughts, saw the vision of a piece of paper fluttering over a trash can.
Picking up the same thought, Hudson asked: “Another fireball?”
Muñoz kept his face buried in his hands. “Get it out!” he yelled. “Get it out!”
Hudson barked a command, and a servant hurried over to the can, removing it to another room. “We’ll have your disposatubes reconnected, Arturo,” Hudson said.
Muñoz nodded, rested his forehead on the back of one hand and sat there breathing hard. Little droplets of perspiration were visible on his forehead. Don’t any of you think it, Muñoz mentoed. I am not mad!
“Why did you send Javik along?” a distant, teasing voice said, speaking from inside General Muñoz’s skull.
There! Muñoz mentoed to the gathering. Did you hear that?
Hear what, General? they mentoed. We didn’t hear anything.
The voice returned: ‘This is private conversation, General. We told you to send Malloy alone. But you got Javik involved.”
“I couldn’t put a cappy on the ship by himself!” Muñoz yelled. “We can’t rely on a god-damned cappy!”
Muñoz’s guests sat at the table in shocked silence, afraid to do or think anything.
“You should have listened, General,” the voice said. “You should have listened!”
“Blast you!” Muñoz bellowed. “I’ll do as I damn well please!”
The voice receded, and Muñoz closed his eyes tightly, his face contorted in pain and fury.
What in the hell is going on? President Ogg thought as he watched these events. The man is mad … stark, raving mad!
Attempting to change the subject, Colonel Peebles mentoed the gathering: I almost wish military action had been necessary, just to see if the Black Box is what it’s cracked up to be!
Surprised, Hudson looked away from General Muñoz. Huh?
What do you suppose is inside those shiny black walls, Doctor? Peebles mentoed, looking with pale blue eyes across the table at Hudson. A robot army? Or some terrible array of automatic weapons?
Hudson made idle chatter, then mentoed: Your guess is as good … or should I say as bad … as mine. We must be careful about undue curiosity, Allen. It could lead to our undoing!
“I must have this recipe!” exclaimed a pudgy man seated halfway down the table. He wiped his chin with a napkin.
“Certainly, Brockman,” Muñoz replied, straightening as he regained his composure. “Have your chef give mine a call.” You’ll make a fine Bu-Cops Minister, the General mentoed.
“Thanks, General,” Brockman said with a wink to make it clear he was responding at once to the spoken and to the unspoken. I’d like to investigate the possibility of giving thought-reading powers to my police detectives, he mentoed. Dr. Hudson tells me the Council Ministers’ transceivers can be tuned to a private wavelength … making our thoughts unreadable by subordinates.
A simple modification, Hudson mentoed. He sipped his wine and sloshed it in his mouth before swallowing it.
Muñoz nodded in affirmation, then mentoed angrily: In two days that fool Ogg will be out of office! He doesn’t know the first damned thing about technology, but loves to use it for his own purposes and take all the credit! Look at the beautiful weather he told Bu-Tech to create just before the election!
“A toast!” Colonel Peebles exclaimed, lifting his wine goblet. “To President Ogg’s re-election!”
“Yes!” everyone said, raising their glasses. “To President Ogg!”
“Good man,” Muñoz said, drinking his last bit of wine. He touched his cross with one hand and closed his eyes to watch simultaneous cloudbursts dump on Afrikari and on the Union of Atheist States.
“That lying bastard!” Euripides Ogg raged as he watched the tiny video screen. “The way their eyelids flicker during long silences … they’re making conversational gestures without speaking aloud! The Black Box …”
A chill ran down the President’s torso as it occurred to him that someone might be eavesdropping on him at that moment. He fell silent, turned off the video screen and stared at his bookcase.
I should do something, he thought. But what?
* * *
After collecting the homework assignments, Sayer Superior Lin-Ti stacked them neatly and slipped them into his briefcase.
“During the balance of the week,” he announced to the class., “you will read Chapters Six through Eight on your own. I have been called away on urgent business.…”