Dr. Futurity Page 2

  With a whirr, the door beside Parsons slid shut. It locked, with him still inside the car. Bending forward, the boy caught hold of the car's controls; the car at once moved rapidly forward.

  "Thanks," Parsons said.

  Without answering him, or even paying any attention to him, the boy made the car pick up speed. Now they had reached an ascending ramp; the car shot up it and leveled off at the top. Glancing out, the boy slowed the car almost to a halt. To their left Parsons made out a less brightly lighted avenue. The car moved in that direction and came to rest in half-shadows. The structures here seemed poorer, less ornate. And no people were in sight.

  Again the door slid open.

  Parsons said, "I appreciate it." Shakily, he stepped out.

  The boy shut the door, and then the car shot off and out of sight. Parsons found himself standing alone, still trying to frame a statement or ask some question--he did not know which. Suddenly the car reappeared; without slowing it hurtled by him, once again breathing its hot exhaust breath at him, sending him spinning back to escape its gleaming lights. From the car something sailed out and crashed at Parson's feet.

  His instrument case. He had left it in the car.

  Seated in the shadows, he opened his instrument case and inspected the contents. Nothing appeared broken or damaged. Thank God for that.

  Mercifully, the boy had let him off in a warehouse district. The buildings had a massive quality, with enormous double doors clearly not intended for human traffic but for some kind of oversized vehicles. And, on the pavement around him, he saw the dim outline of refuse.

  He picked up a piece of written material. A political pamphlet, evidently. Denouncing someone or some party. He recognized words here and there--the syntax seemed easy enough; the language was inflected, along the lines of Spanish or Italian, not distributive, but with occasional English words. Seeing it written made the problem of understanding it much easier for him. He recalled the medical texts in Russian and Chinese that had been required reading, the twice-monthly journal with abstracts in six languages. Part of being a medical man. At the University of La Jolla he had had to read not only German, Russian, Chinese, but also French--a language of no real current importance, but forced on them by tradition. And his wife, as a cultural asset, had been learning classic Greek.

  Anyhow, he realized, that's all solved now. They have their one synthetic language. And this is it.

  What I need is a place to hide, he decided. While I orient myself--a breathing-spell, where I'm less vulnerable. The buildings, dark and silent around him, appeared deserted. At the end of the street, a variety of lights and the tiny, distant shapes of people indicated a commercial section, open in the night to do business.

  A dim street light lit the way ahead of him as he walked cautiously among the discarded cartons heaped by a loading platform. Now he stumbled over a series of waste-cans, from which a muted churning became audible. The overflowing waste began to stir, and he discovered that by knocking against the cans he had started the mechanism back into operation. No doubt it was supposed to be automatic, consuming trash as fast as it was put in, but it hadn't been kept in good repair.

  A flight of cement steps led down to a doorway. He descended and tried the rusty handle of the door. Locked, of course. A storage area, probably.

  Kneeling down in the semidarkness he opened his instrument case and got out the surgical packet. Its power supply was self-contained, and he clicked it on. The basic tools lit up; for emergency operations they cast enough light to work by. Expertly, he fitted a blade into the drive-gear socket and cinched it up. Whining faintly, the blade cut into the lock of the door. He stood close to it, muffling the sound.

  The blade crunched loose; the lock had been cut away from the door. Hastily, he disassembled the surgical tools, stuffed them back into the instrument case. With both hands he gently tugged at the door.

  The door opened, squeaking on its hinges.

  Now, he thought. A place to hide. In his case he had a number of dermal preparations, for use in treating burns. Already he had selected in his mind the combination of aseptic sprays that would yield a darker color; he could lower his skin hue to one indistinguishable from that of . . .

  In sudden bright light he stood blinking. Not a deserted storeroom at all. Warm air greeted him, smells of food. A man stood with a decanter in his hand, stopped in the act of pouring a woman's drink.

  Seven or eight people faced him. Some sitting in chairs, a couple standing. They regarded him placidly, without surprise. They had obviously been aware of him while he cut away the lock; they had heard him outside, working.

  The man resumed pouring the woman's drink. Now a low-pitched murmur of talk picked up. His presence--manner of entry--did not seem to perturb these people at all.

  A woman, seated near him, was saying something to him. The musical flow of words repeated themselves several times, but he could not catch the meaning. The woman smiled up at him, without rancor, again speaking, but now more slowly. He caught one word, then another. She was telling him firmly but politely that it was up to him to replace the door lock.

  " . . . and please shut it," she concluded. "The door."

  Foolishly, he reached behind him and pulled the door shut.

  A dapper-looking youth, leaning toward him, said, "We know who you are." At least, so Parsons interpreted his statement.

  "Yes," another man said. Several of them nodded.

  The woman near the door said, "You're the--" And a word followed that he could make no sense of. It had a totally artificial ring, jargon rather than language.

  "That's right," another echoed. "That's what you are."

  "But we don't care," a boy said.

  They all agreed to that.

  "Because," the boy continued, his white teeth sparkling, "we're not here."

  A chorus of agreement. "No, not here at all!"

  "This is a delusion," a slender woman said.

  "Delusion," two men repeated.

  Parsons said unsteadily, "Who am I, did you say?"

  "So we're not afraid," one of them said, or at least so he understood that person to say.

  "Afraid?" Parsons said. That caught his attention at once.

  "You came to get us," a girl said.

  "Yes," they all agreed, with evident delight, their heads nodding up and down. "But you can't."

  He thought, They think I'm somebody else.

  "Touch me," the woman by the door said. She set down her drink and rose from her chair. "I'm not actually here."

  "None of us are," several people agreed. "Touch her. Go on."

  Unable to move, Parsons stood where he was. I don't get it, he thought. I just don't.

  "All right," the woman said. "I'll touch you. My hand will pass right through yours."

  "Like air," a man said happily.

  The woman reached out her slim, dark fingers, closer and closer to his arm. Smiling, her eyes alive with delight, she put her fingers on his arm.

  Her fingers did not pass through. At once, her mouth fell open with shock. "Oh," she whispered.

  The room became silent. They all stared at him.

  Finally one of the men said faintly, "He's genuinely found us."

  "He really is here," a woman murmured, her eyes wild with fear. "Here where we are. In the basement."

  They gazed at Parsons numbly. He could do nothing but gaze back.

  THREE

  After a terrible silence, one of the women sank down in a chair and said, "We thought you were up on Fingal Street. We have a projection on Fingal Street."

  "How did you find us?" a man said. Their rather adolescent voices mingled in a chorus.

  Of the welter of talk he could make out a reasonable portion. A meeting. Secret, down here in the warehouse district. So sure of their seclusion that his coming hadn't registered.

  Shupo. That had been the word for him.

  With great care, Parsons said, "I'm not shupo." Whatever that was.

/>   At once, they perked up. All eyes again fixed on him, the black, large, youthful eyes.

  A man said, with bitterness, "Who else drills through doors?"

  "Not only does he drill," a girl said, "but he's enmask."

  They nodded. Their anxiety had become tinged with resentment.

  "That incredible white mask," a girl said.

  "We had masks," a man said. "The last time."

  "Oftentimes," another said, "we wear masks when we're out."

  He had, apparently, stumbled onto a marginal, covert group that operated outside the law. Conspiring, possibly political . . . in danger. Certainly in no position to menace him. Good luck for me, he decided.

  "Let's see your real face," a man said. Now they all clamored, with mounting indignation.

  "This is my real face," he said.

  "All white like that?"

  "And listen to him talk," another said. "Speech impediment."

  "Partly deaf, too," another said, a girl. "In that he doesn't get half of what's said."

  "A real quivak," a boy said scathingly.

  A small, sharp-faced youth swaggered up to Parsons. With contempt, in a drawling, insinuating voice, he said close to Parson's face, "Let's get it over with." He held up his right thumb.

  "Cut it off," a girl said, her eyes flashing. She also held out her right thumb. "Go ahead. Cut it off right now!"

  So, Parsons thought. Political criminals are maimed in this society. Ancient punishment. He felt deep revulsion. Barbaric . . . and these animal totems. Reversion to tribes.

  And on the highway, the boy who thought I wanted to be killed. Who tried to ride me down and was perplexed when I tried to escape.

  He thought, And the city looked so beautiful to me.

  Off in the corner stood a man who had said nothing, who sipped his drink and watched. His dark, heavy features had an ironic expression; of them all, he seemed the only one who had control of his emotions. Now he moved toward Parsons and for the first time spoke up.

  "You expected to find nobody here," he said. "You thought this was an empty warehouse."

  "The only complexion of your type," the man continued, "in my experience, is the result of a highly contagious plague. But you seem healthy. I notice also that you have unpigmented eyes."

  "Blue," a girl corrected.

  "That is unpigmented," the heavy-set man continued. "What interests me most is your clothing. I'd guess 1910."

  With care, Parsons said, "More like 2010."

  The man smiled slightly. "Not far off, though."

  "What's this, then?" Parsons asked.

  The black eyes flickered. "Ah," he said. Turning to the group he said, "Well, amici, this is less threatening than you imagine. We have here another botch tempus-wise. I suggest we get the door relocked, and then sit down and cool." To Parsons, he said, "This is 2405. You're the first person that I know of. Up to now it's been things. Displacements. Said to be natural but freak. Frogs fall in the street, an extinct species. That tips off our scientific men. Stones. Debris. Bric-a-brac. You see?"

  "Yes," Parsons said hesitantly.

  The man shrugged. "But who can tell why." Again he smiled at Parsons. "Name's Wade," he said. "Yours?"

  "Parsons."

  "Hail," Wade said, lifting his open palm. "Or what is it? Noses? No matter. You care to join our party? Not frolic, but the other usage."

  "Political," Parsons said.

  "Yes, to change--not understand--society. I lead, here. The--what is your old word? Sill? Sold?"

  "Cell," Parsons said.

  "Quite right," Wade said. "As in bees, honey. Care to hear our program? Couldn't possibly mean anything to you. I suggest you exit. There is some danger to us."

  Parsons said, "I've had trouble outside. For me there's danger out there, too." He indicated his face. "At least give me time to work on my color."

  "Caucasic," Wade said, tasting the word as he said it, scowling.

  "Give me half an hour," Parsons said tightly.

  Wade made a gesture of largess. "Be our guest." He eyed Parsons. "We--they, if you will--have rigid standards. Maybe you can fit in. Unfortunately, no middle ground. Law of the excluded middle, sort of."

  "In other words," Parsons said, feeling his tension and aversion rise, "it's like all primitive societies. The stranger isn't considered human. Killed on sight, is he? Anything unfamiliar." His hands were shaking; getting out a cigarette he lit it, trying to steady himself. "Your totem-device," he said, gesturing at Wade. "The eagle. You exalt eagle qualities? Ruthlessness and quickness?"

  "Not exactly," Wade said. "All tribes are unified, with a common world view. We know nothing about eagles. Our tribal names came out of the Age of Darkness that followed the H-War."

  Kneeling down, Parsons opened his instrument case. As quickly as possible he laid out his dermal sprays. Wade and the others watched for a few moments, and then seemed to lose interest. Their talk resumed. He thought, Short span of attention. Like children.

  Not even like. Are. As yet he hadn't seen anyone over twenty or so. Wade had the most mature manner, the grave, educated pomposity of a left-wing college sophomore. Of course, he hadn't as yet seen a real sample. This group, the boy on the highway . . .

  The door opened suddenly. A woman entered. At the sight of Parsons she stopped. "Oh," she gasped. Her dark eyes widened with astonishment. "Who . . . ?"

  Wade greeted her. "Icara. This is not illness. This is one of those frogs. Displacement named Parsons." To Parsons he said. "She is my--doxy? Bawd? Great and good friend? Puella."

  The woman nodded nervously. She set down an armload of packages, which the other persons immediately gathered up. "Why is your skin chalk-colored?" she asked, bending down beside him, slender, breathing a little rapidly, her black lips twisting with concern.

  "In my times," he said with difficulty, "we were divided into white, yellow, brown, black races. All varieties of sub-races within the species. It's obvious there was a fusion sometime later on."

  Icara's finely-shaped nose wrinkled. "Separate? How awful. And your language is foul. Full of lapses. Why is the door hanging open?"

  "He cut the lock," Wade sighed.

  "Then he should fix it," the woman said with no hesitation. Still bending down beside him, watching him work, she said, "What's that gray box? Why are you opening those tubes? Are you going to travel back in time? Can we watch?"

  "He's spraying himself," Wade said. "Darker."

  Her shining dark hair came closer to him as she leaned forward and delicately sniffed. In a low voice she said to him, "Also, you should do something about your smell."

  "What?" he said, jolted on several levels.

  Studying him, she said, "You smell bad. Like mold."

  The others, overhearing, came over to see and then give their opinions. "More like vegetables," one man said. "Maybe it's his clothes. Vegetable fiber, possibly."

  Icara said, "We bathe."

  "So do we," Parsons said, with anger.

  "Every day?" She drew back. "I believe it's your clothes, not you." She eyed him as he sprayed on his skin-coloring. "That's a good deal better. God, you looked like a grub. Not--"

  "Not human," Parsons finished ironically.

  Standing up, Icara said to Wade, "I don't see--I mean, it's going to be such a problem. The Soul Cube will be thrown off. And how can he possibly be fitted with the Fountain? He's so very different, and anyhow we don't have time for this; we have to get on with the meeting. And there our door is, hanging open."

  "Is that bad?" Parsons demanded.

  "The door?" she said.

  "To be different."

  "Why, of course it's bad. If you're different then you don't belong. But you can learn to speak correctly. And look--those dyes of yours are working quite well." She smiled at him hopefully.

  "Real problem," Wade said, "is orientation. He can't possibly learn. Basic concepts lacking; we got as babies." Raising an eyebrow he said to Parsons. "How old are you?"


  "Thirty-two," Parsons said. He had almost finished spraying his face, neck, hands and arms; now he had begun removing his shirt.

  Wade and Icara exchanged glances. "Oh, dear," Icara said. "You mean it? Thirty-two?" Evidently to change the subject she said, "What is that clever little gray box, and those objects in it?"

  "My instruments," Parsons said, his shirt off now.

  "And what about the Lists?" Wade said, half to himself. "The government won't like it." He shook his head. "He can't be fitted into any of the tribes. He'll throw the count off."

  Parsons shoved the open instrument case toward Wade. "Look," he said harshly. "I don't give a damn about your tribes. You see these? They're the finest surgical tools developed in twenty-six centuries. I don't know how good or how extensive your own medical work is, but I can hold my own in any culture, past or present. With my kind of knowledge and skill, I can be of value anywhere. I know that, if nothing else. My medical knowledge will always find me a place!"

  Icara and Wade looked blank. "Medical knowledge?" Icara faltered. "What's that?"

  Parsons, appalled, said, "I'm a physician."

  "You're a--" Icara searched for the word. "What was it I read in the history tape? Alchemist? No, that's earlier. Sorcerer? Is a physician a sorcerer? Does he predict events by examining the motion of the stars, and consulting with spirits and so on?"

  "How dull," Wade murmured. "There are no spirits."

  Now Parsons had sprayed his chest, shoulders and back; as rapidly as possible he rebuttoned his shirt, hoping that the film had dried. He put on his coat, tossed his instruments back in the case, and started toward the half-open door.

  Wade said, "Salvay, amicus." He sounded gloomy.

  Pausing at the door, Parsons turned to speak. But the door, on its own, whipped away from him. Half falling, he lurched, caught himself--and looked down into a grinning, sardonic little face that peered up at him gleefully. A child, he thought. A ghastly caricature of a child, and more of them, all wearing the same dainty green cap . . . costumes in a grammar school play. Pointing a metal tube at him, the first child shrilled:

  "Shupo!"