Dr. Futurity Page 5

  Yet, this was a society built on death. Death was an everyday part of their lives. Individuals died and no one was perturbed, not even the victims. They died happily, gladly. But it was wrong. It was against nature. A man was supposed to defend his life instinctively. Place it before everything else. This society denied a basic drive common to all life forms.

  Struggling to express himself, he said, "You invite death. When someone dies, you're glad."

  "Death," Stenog said, "is part of the cycle of existence, as much so as birth. You saw the Soul Cube. A man's death is as significant as his life." He spoke disjointedly, as traffic ahead of him caused him to turn his attention back to driving.

  And yet, Parsons thought, this man does everything he can to avoid piling up his car. He's a careful driver. A contradiction.

  In my own society--

  Nobody thought about death. The system in which he had been born, in which he had grown up, had no explanation for death. A man simply lived out his life and tried to pretend that he wouldn't die.

  Which was more realistic? This integration of death into the society, or the neurotic refusal of his own society to consider death at all? Like children, he decided. Unable and unwilling to imagine their own deaths . . . that's how my world operated. Until mass death caught up with us all, as apparently it did.

  "Your forefathers," Stenog said, "the early Christians, I mean, hurled themselves under chariot wheels. They sought death, and yet out of their beliefs came your society."

  Parsons said slowly, "We may ignore death, we may immaturely deny the existence of death, but at least we don't court death."

  "You did indirectly," Stenog said. "By denying such a powerful reality, you undermined the rational basis of your world. You had no way to cope with war and famine and overpopulation because you couldn't bring yourselves to discuss them. So war happened to you; it was like a natural calamity, not man-made at all. It became a force. We control our society. We contemplate all aspects of our existence, not merely the good and pleasant."

  For the rest of the trip they drove in silence.

  After they had gotten out of the car, and had started up the front steps of the house, Stenog paused at a shrub that grew by the porch. In the porchlight he directed Parsons' attention to the various blooms.

  "What do you notice growing?" he said, lifting a heavy stalk.

  "A bud."

  Stenog lifted another stalk. "And here is a blooming flower. And over here, a dying flower. Past its bloom." He took a knife from his belt and with one swift, clean swipe he severed the dying flower from the shrub and dropped it over the railing. "You saw two things: the bud, which is the life to come. The blossom, which I cut off so that new buds could form."

  Parsons was deep in thought. "But somewhere in this world, there's someone who doesn't think like you do. That must be why I was brought here. Sooner or later--"

  "They'll show up?" Stenog finished, his face animated.

  All at once Parsons understood why no attempt had been made to keep him under careful guard. Why Stenog drove him so openly and readily about the city, brought him to his house, to the Fountain itself.

  They wanted the contact made.

  Inside the house, in the living room, Amy sat at the harpsichord. At first the music did not seem familiar to Parsons, but after a time he became aware that she was playing Jelly Roll Morton tunes, but in some strange, inaccurate rhythm.

  "I got to looking for something from your period," she said, pausing. "You didn't happen ever to see Morton, did you? We consider him on a par with Dowland and Schubert and Brahms."

  Parsons said, "He lived before my time."

  "Am I doing it wrong?" she said, noticing his expression. "I've always been fond of music of that period. In fact, I did a paper on it, in school."

  "Too bad I can't play," he said. "We had TV, in our period. Learning to play a musical instrument had just about vanished as either a social or a cultural experience." In fact, he had never played a musical instrument of any kind; he recognized the harpsichord only from having seen one in a museum. This culture had revived elements from centuries previous to his own, had made them a part of their world; for him, music had been important, but it had come from recordings, or, at best, concerts. The idea of playing music in the home was as incredible as owning one's own telescope.

  "I'm surprised you don't play," Stenog said. He had produced a bottle and glasses. "What about this? Fermented drink, made from grains."

  "I think I recall that," Parsons said with amusement.

  Still very seriously, Stenog said, "As I understand it, liquor was introduced to take the place of drugs popular during your period. It has fewer toxic side-effects than the drugs you're probably familiar with." He opened the bottle and began to pour. From the color and smell, Parsons guessed that the stuff was a sour-mash bourbon.

  He and Stenog sat drinking, while Amy played her eerie version of Dixieland jazz at the harpsichord. The house had a deeply peaceful air, and he felt himself becoming a little more calm. Was this, after all, so vile a society?

  How, he thought, can a society be judged by an individual created by another society? There's no disinterested standard. I'm merely comparing this world to mine. Not to a third.

  The bourbon seemed to his taste unaged; he drank only a little. Across from him, Stenog filled his own glass a second time, and now Amy came over. He watched her go to the cupboard for a glass; Stenog had not gotten one out for her. The status of women . . . and yet, in his contact with Wade and Icara, he had not been conscious of this disparity.

  "That illegal political group," he said. "What did they advocate?"

  Stenog stirred. "Voting rights for women."

  Although she had her drink, Amy did not join them. She retired to a corner and seated herself, small and quiet and thoughtful.

  But she did mention going to school, Parsons remembered. So women aren't excluded from educational opportunities. Perhaps education itself, especially nonscientific education, such as a degree in history, has no status here. Something appropriate for women: a mere hobby.

  Studying his glass, Stenog said, "Do you like my puella ?"

  Embarrassed, Parsons said, "I--" He could not keep himself from glancing in her direction. She showed no emotion.

  "You're staying here tonight," Stenog said. "You can sleep with Amy if you want."

  To that, Parsons could say nothing. Guardedly, he looked from Stenog to Amy, trying to make out what actually was meant. Here, the language barrier had betrayed him--and the difference in customs.

  "That's not done in my time segment," he said finally.

  "Well, you're here now," Stenog said with a touch of ire.

  Certainly, that was true. Parsons considered, and then said, "I should think this practice would upset your careful control of zygote formation."

  At once, both Stenog and Amy started. "Oh," Amy said. "Of course." To Stenog she said, "Remember, he didn't go through the Initiation." With visible uneasiness she added, "It's a good thing he spoke up. This could be a very dangerous situation. I'm surprised none of you thought about it."

  Drawing himself up, Stenog said with pride, "Parsons, prepare to have your sensibilities offended."

  "That isn't important," Amy said to him. "I'm thinking of situations he might get into."

  Paying no attention to her, Stenog focused his attention on Parsons. "All males are sterilized at the inception of puberty," he said, an expression of deep satisfaction on his face. "Myself, included."

  "So you can see," Amy said, "why this custom causes no particular trouble. But in your case--"

  "No, no," Stenog said. "You can't sleep with her, Parsons. In fact, you can't sleep with any of the women." Now he, too, had become disturbed. "You should be gotten to Mars, I think. As soon as it's feasible. A thing like this . . . it could cause great problems."

  Approaching Parsons, Amy said, "More to drink?" She started to refill his glass. He did not protest.

  SIX


  It became feasible at four that morning. Suddenly Jim Parsons found himself on his feet, out of bed; his clothes were handed to him, and before he had even gotten half-dressed the several men, wearing government uniforms of some kind, had him in motion, out of the house to a parked car. No one spoke to him. The men worked fast, and with skill. A moment later the car carried him at high speed along the empty highway, away from the city.

  At no time did he see any sign of Stenog. Or of Amy.

  The field, when they reached it, surprised him by its size: no larger than the back yard of an ordinary upper-middle-class home, and not even fully level. On it a ship, like an egg, painted originally a dark blue but now pitted and corroded, was in the process of being prepared. Several field lights had been trained on it, and in the glare technicians were going over it, making what he guessed to be final examinations.

  Almost at once he found himself being propelled up a ramp and through the porthole entrance of the ship. There, in a single compartment, he was seated in a reinforced chair, clamped so that he could not stir--and at that point the men let go of him.

  The compartment contained, besides himself, a single entity. He had never seen such an object before; he stared at it, feeling a pervasive dread.

  The machine stood almost as high as a man, built partly of opaque metals and plastic, and partly--near the top--of a transparent membrane through which he could see activity taking place. In a fluid, something soft, on the order of gray organic material, floated. Out of the top of the machine several delicate projections sprouted, reminding him of the below-surface portions of mushrooms. Fine interlacing of fibres almost too tenuous to be visible.

  Pausing at the entrance porthole, one of the government men turned and said, "It's not alive. That business floating around up top, that's a section cut out of a rat brain. It's growing in the medium, but it's not conscious; it's just to simplify building them."

  "Easier to cut a section from a rat brain than build a control," another man said, and then both of them disappeared; the lock slipped into place and the hull of the ship became sealed.

  Immediately the machine in front of Parsons whirred, clicked, and said in a calm, distinctly human voice, "The trip to the Martian settlements takes approximately seventy-five minutes. You will be supplied with adequate ventilation and heat, but there is no provision for food except in emergency."

  The machine clicked off. It had spoken its piece.

  Now the ship shuddered. Parsons shut his eyes as the ship began to lift, very slowly at first, and then, abruptly, at enormous speed. The far section of wall had a wide slot for viewing purposes; he saw the surface of Earth rush away, the stars swirl as the ship changed course. Nice of them to let me see, he thought in a dazed, remote way.

  Now the machine spoke again. "This ship is so constructed that tampering with any portion of it will produce a detonation that will destroy both the ship and occupant. The trajectory of flight is prearranged, and any tampering with the automatic self-contained beam will cause the same detonating mechanism to become active." After a moment the machine repeated its message.

  The swirl of stars that he faced gradually settled down. One spot of light began to grow, and he identified it as Mars.

  "By your left hand you will find an emergency button," the machine said suddenly. "If you find yourself deprived of either adequate ventilation or warmth, press that button."

  For other kinds of situations, Parsons thought, there probably are no provisions. This ship carries me to Mars, blows up if anyone tries to interfere, gives me air and heat, and that's its job.

  The interior, as well as the exterior, had a worn, used quality. It's made this trip many times, he decided. It's carried quite a few people between Earth and the Martian settlements. Back and forth. A shuttle-service, leaving at odd hours.

  Mars continued to grow. He guessed at the time, Half an hour possibly had gone by. It makes good speed, he thought. Perfected .

  And then Mars, on the screen, disappeared.

  The stars leaped; he felt a vacuum within him, as if he were falling. The stars settled into place and the feeling departed almost as quickly as it had come.

  But, on the screen, he saw no destination. Only black emptiness and the far-off stars. The ship continued to move, but now he had no constant by which to measure.

  Across from him, the machine clicked and said in its recorded human voice. "We have passed approximately halfway on the trip."

  Something has gone wrong, Parsons realized. The ship is no longer heading toward Mars. And it did not seem to bother the robot self-regulating mechanism.

  He thought in panic, Mars is gone!

  Slightly over half an hour later the machine announced, "We are about to land. Be prepared for a series of concussions as the ship adjusts itself."

  Beyond the ship--only void.

  This is what they had in mind, Parsons thought. Stenog and the government men. No intention of taking me to any "prison colonies." This is a shuttle that drops me off to die, out in space.

  "We have landed," the machine said. And then it corrected itself. "We are about to land." Several humming sounds issued from it and, although the voice had the same measured confidence, Parsons had the intuition that the machine, too, had been thrown off. Perhaps this situation hadn't been intentional--at least, not intended by the designers of the ship.

  It's confused, he realized. It doesn't know what to do.

  "This isn't Mars," Parsons said aloud. But, even as he spoke, he realized that it couldn't hear him; it was only a self-regulating device, not alive. "We're in the void," he said.

  The machine said, "From here on you will be remanded to the local authorities. The trip is over." It fell silent then; he saw its swirling interior die off into immobility. It had done its job--or at least it imagined that it had done its job.

  The entrance lock of the ship swung back, and Parsons gazed out into nothingness. Around him, the atmosphere of the ship began to shriek away, rushing out through the open lock. At once, a helmetlike unit sprang from the chair in which he was strapped; the unit dropped into his lap. And, at the same time, the machine returned to life.

  "Emergency," the machine said. "Immediately don the protective equipment which has been put within your reach. Do not delay!"

  Parsons did so. The straps that held him barely permitted him to get the unit into place. As the last air rushed from the ship, he had the unit over him. Already it had begun pumping; he tasted the stale, cool air.

  The walls of the ship glowed red. Undoubtedly, an emergency mechanism was trying to make up for the dissipating heat.

  For what he judged to be fifteen minutes the lock of the ship remained open. Then, all at once, the lock slid shut.

  Across from him the machine clicked, and inside it the sentient tissue eddied about in its medium. But the machine had nothing to say. No passengers go back, he decided. The ship shuddered, and, through the viewing slot, he saw a flash of light. Some kind of jets had gone into action.

  With horror he realized that he was on his way across space once more. From one empty point to another. How many times? Would it go on and on, this meaningless shuttle-service?

  Through the viewing slot the stars altered positions as the ship adjusted itself onto its return course. Hope entered him. Maybe, at the other end, he would find Earth. Through some mechanical failure the ship had taken him, not to Mars, but to a random, alternate point; but now the mistake would be rectified. Now he would find himself back where he had started.

  Seventy-five minutes later--at least, he presumed it to be-- the ship shuddered and once again unfastened its entrance lock. Once more he gazed out into the void. Oh, God, he thought. And not even the physical sense of motion, only the intellectual realization that I traveled between far-distant points. Millions and millions of miles .

  After a time the lock slid shut. Again, he thought. The nightmare. The terrible dream of motion. If he shut his eyes, did not look at the view
ing slot, and if he could keep his mind from working . . .

  That would be insanity, he decided.

  How easy it would be. To sink into an insane withdrawal, sitting here in this chair. Ignore what I know to be true.

  But in a few more hours he would be hungry. Already his mouth had become dry; he would die of thirst long before he died of hunger.

  The machine said in the calm voice so familiar to him now, "The trip to the Martian settlements takes approximately seventy-five minutes. You will be supplied with adequate ventilation and heat, but there is no provision for food except in emergency."

  Isn't this an emergency? Parsons thought. Will it recognize it as such? When I begin to die of thirst, perhaps?

  Will it squirt me with water from taps somewhere in the walls of the ship? Across from him the bit of gray rat tissue floated in its medium. You're not alive, Parsons said to himself. You're not suffering; you're not even aware of this.

  He thought about Stenog. Did you plan this? I can't believe it. This is some hideous freak accident. Nobody planned this.

  Someone took away Mars and the Earth, he thought. And forgot about me. Take me too, he thought, Don't forget me; I want to go along.

  The machine clicked and said, "This ship is so constructed that tampering with any portion of it will produce a detonation."

  He felt a surge of bizarre hope. Better if the ship blew up, than this. Perhaps he could get loose . . . anything would be better.

  In the viewing slot, the distant stars. Nothing to notice him.

  While he stared at the viewing slot, a star detached itself. It was not a star. It was an object.

  The object grew.

  Coming closer, Parsons thought. For what seemed to him an unbearable time the object remained virtually the same size, not getting either larger or smaller. He could not tell what it was. A meteor? Bit of space debris? A ship? Keeping its distance . . .

  The machine said, "We are about to land. Be prepared for a series of concussions as the ship adjusts itself."

  This time, Parsons thought, something is out there. Not Mars. Not a planet. But--something.