Beyond This Horizon (3 page)

“Sorry. Eat your dinner.”

The fish stew contained several large crab legs; Hamilton ladled one into his guest’s trencher. Monroe-Alpha stared at it uneasily. “Don’t be so suspicious,” Hamilton advised. “Go ahead. Eat it.”

“How?”

“Pick it up in your fingers, and crack the shell.” Monroe-Alpha attempted to comply, somewhat clumsily, but the greasy, hard surface skidded between his fingers. He attempted to recover and knocked it over the edge of the balcony rail at his elbow.

He started to rise; Hamilton put a hand on his forearm. “My fault,” he said. “I will repair it.” He stood up and looked down at the table directly beneath their booth.

He did not see the stray bit of seafood at once, but he had no difficulty in telling approximately where it had landed. Seated at the table was a party of eight. Two of them were elderly men who wore the brassards-of-peace. Four women alternated with the males around the table. One of them, quite young and pretty, was dabbing at something which seemed to have stained her gown. The wayward crab leg was floating in a crystal bell of purple liquid directly in front of her; cause and effect were easy to infer.

The two remaining men were both armed, both standing, and staring up at the balcony. The younger, a slender youth in bright scarlet promenade dress, was resting his right hand on the grip of his sidearm, and seemed about to speak. The older man turned coldly dangerous eyes from Hamilton to his youthful companion. “My privilege, Cyril,” he said quietly, “if you please.”

The young brave was clearly annoyed and reluctant to comply; nevertheless he bowed stiffly and sat down. His elder returned the bow punctiliously and turned back to Hamilton. The lace of his cuff brushed his holster, but he had not touched his weapon—as yet.

Hamilton leaned over the balcony, both his hands spread and plainly visible on the rail. “Sir, my clumsiness has disturbed the pleasure of your meal and invaded your privacy. I am deeply sorry.”

“I have your assurance that it was accidental, sir?” The man’s eyes were still frosty, but he made no move to draw. But he did not sit down.

“You have indeed, sir, and with it my humble apology. Will you graciously permit me to make reparation?”

The other glanced down, not at the youth, but at the girl whose gown had been splashed. She shrugged. He answered Hamilton, “The thought is taken for the deed, sir.”

“Sir, you leave me indebted.”

“Not at all, sir.”

They were exchanging bows and were about to resume their seats, when a shouted remark from the balcony booth directly opposite interrupted them. “Where’s your brassard?”

They both looked toward the source of the disturbance; one of a party of men—armed citizens all apparently, for no brassards were to be seen—was leaning out of the booth and staring with deliberate rudeness. Hamilton spoke to the man at the table below. “My privilege, is it not, sir?”

“Your privilege. I wish you well.” He sat down and turned his attention back to his guests.

“You spoke to me?” asked Hamilton of the man across the ring.

“I did. You were let off lightly. You should eat at home—if you have a home. Not in the presence of gentlefolk.”

Monroe-Alpha touched Hamilton’s arm. “He’s drunk,” he whispered. “Take it easy.”

“I know,” his friend answered in a barely audible aside, “but he gives me no choice.”

“Perhaps his friends will take care of him.”

“We’ll see.”

Indeed his friends were attempting to. One of them placed a restraining hand on his weapon arm, but he shook him off. He was playing to a gallery—the entire restaurant was quiet now, the diners ostentatiously paying no attention, a pose contrary to fact. “Answer me!” he demanded.

“I will,” Hamilton stated quietly. “You have been drinking and are not responsible. Your friends should disarm you and place a brassard on
you
. Else some short-tempered gentleman may fail to note that your manners were poured from a bottle.”

There was a stir and a whispered consultation in the party behind the other man, as if some agreed with Hamilton’s estimate of the situation. One of them spoke urgently to the belligerent one, but he ignored it.

“What’s that about my manners, you misplanned mistake?”

(“Easy, Felix.” “Too late, Cliff.”)

“Your manners,” Hamilton stated, “are as thick as your tongue. You are a disgrace to the gun you wear.”

The other man drew too fast, but he drew high, apparently with the intention of chopping down.

The terrific explosion of the Colt forty-five brought every armed man in the place to his feet, sidearm clear, eyes wary, ready for action. But the action was all over. A woman laughed, shortly and shrilly. The sound broke the tension for everyone. Men relaxed, weapons went back to belts, seats were resumed with apologetic shrugs. The diners went back to their own affairs with the careful indifference to other people’s business of the urbane sophisticate.

Hamilton’s antagonist was half supported by the arms of his friends. He seemed utterly surprised and completely sobered. There was a hole in his chemise near his right shoulder from which a wet dark stain was spreading. One of the men holding him up waved to Hamilton with his free arm, palm out. Hamilton acknowledged the capitulation with the same gesture. Someone drew the curtains of the booth opposite.

Hamilton sank back into the cushions with a relieved sigh. “We lose more crabs that way,” he observed. “Have some more, Cliff?”

“Thanks, no,” Monroe-Alpha answered. “I’ll stick to spoon foods. I hate interruptions at meal times, Felix. He might have cooled you.”

“And left you to pay the check. Such slug pinching ill becomes you, Cliff.”

Monroe-Alpha looked annoyed. “You know it’s not that. I have few enough friends not to wish to lose them in casual brawls. You should have taken a private room, as I requested.” He touched a stud under the railing; the curtains waved across the arch, shutting them off from the public room.

Hamilton laughed. “A little excitement peps up the appetite.”

In the booth opposite the man who had waved capitulation spoke savagely to the one who had been wounded. “You fool! You clumsy fool! You muffed it.”

“I couldn’t help it,” the injured man protested. “After he waived privilege, there was nothing to do but play drunk and pretend I meant the other one.” He dabbed futilely at his freely bleeding shoulder, “In the Name of the Egg, what did he burn me with?”

“No matter.”

“Maybe not to you, but it is to me. I’ll look him up.”

“You will not. One mistake is too many.”

“But I thought he was one of us. I thought it was part of the set up.”

“Hummph! Had it been, you would have been told.”

After Monroe-Alpha left to keep his date, Hamilton found himself at loose ends. The night life of the capital offered plenty of opportunity for a man to divest himself of surplus credit, but it was not new to him. He tried, in a desultory fashion, to find professional entertainment, then gave up and let the city itself amuse him. The corridors were thronged as always, the lifts packed; the Great Square under the port surged with people. Where were they all going? What was the hurry? What did they expect to find when they got there?

The presence of some types held obvious explanations. The occasional man with a brassard was almost certainly out at this hour because his business required him to be. The same rule applied without exception to the few armed men who also wore brassards—proclaiming thereby their unique status as police monitors, armed but immune to attack.

But the others, the armed and richly costumed men and their almost as gaudy women—why did they stir about so? Why not remain quietly at home with their wenches?

He realized, consciously and sardonically, that he himself was part of the throng, present because it amused him. He knew he had no reason to feel that his own sense of detached amusement was unique. Perhaps they all came to keep from being bored with themselves, to observe their mutual folly and to laugh.

He found himself, later, the last customer in a small bar. The collection of empty cups at his elbow was impressive. “Herbert,” he said at last, to the owner back of the bar, “why do you run this joint?”

Herbert paused in his tidying up. “To make money.”

“That’s a good answer, Herbert. Money and children—what other objectives are there? I’ve too much of one and none of the other. Set ’em up, Herbert. Let’s drink to your kids.”

Herbert set out two cups, but shook his head. “Make it something else. I’ve no kids.”

“Huh? Sorry—none of my business. We’ll drink to the kids I haven’t got instead.” Herbert poured the drinks, from separate bottles.

“What’s that private stock of yours, Herbert? Let me try it.”

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, to tell the truth, it’s flavored water.”

“You’d drink a toast in
that?
Why, Herbert!”

“You don’t understand. My kidneys…”

Hamilton looked at him in sharp surprise. His host looked pleased. “You wouldn’t guess, would you? Yes, I’m a natural. But it’s my own hair I’m wearing. And my own teeth…mostly. Keep myself fit. Good a man as the next.” He dumped the liquid from his own cup, and refilled it from the bottle he had used for Hamilton’s drink. “Shucks! One won’t hurt me.” He raised his drink. “Long life!”

“And children,” Hamilton added mechanically.

They tossed them down. Herbert filled them up again. “Take children,” he began. “Any man wants to see his kids do better than he did. Now I’ve been married for twenty-five years to the same woman. My wife and I are both First Truthers and we don’t hold with these modern arrangements. But children…we settled that a long time ago. ‘Martha,’ I said to her, ‘it don’t matter what the brethren think. What’s right is right. Our kids are going to have every advantage that other kids have.’ And after a while she came around to my way of thinking. So we went to the Eugenics Board—”

Hamilton tried to think of some way to stop this flow of confidences.

“I must say that they were very kind and polite. First they told us to think it over. ‘If you practice gene selection,’ they said, ‘your children won’t receive the control benefit.’ As if we didn’t know that: Money wasn’t the object. We wanted our kids to grow up fine and strong and smarter than we were. So we insisted and they made a chromosome chart on each of us.

“It was two, three weeks before they called us back. ‘Well, Doc,’ I said, soon as we were inside, ‘what’s the answer? What had we better select for?’ ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he says. ‘You’re both good sound types and the state needs controls like you. I’m willing to recommend an increase in benefit, if you’ll drop it.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I know my rights. Any citizen, even a control natural, can practice gene selection if he wants to.’ Then he let me have it, full charge.”

“Well?”

“There wasn’t anything to select for in either of us.”

“Huh?”

“’S truth. Little things, maybe. We could have arranged to leave out my wife’s hay fever, but that was about all. But as for planning a child that could compete on even terms with the general run of planned children, it just wasn’t in the cards. The material wasn’t there. They had made up an ideal chart of the best that could be combined from my genes and my wife’s and it still wasn’t good enough. It showed a maximum of a little over four percent over me and my wife in the general rating scale. ‘Furthermore,’ he told us, ‘you couldn’t plan on that score. We might search your germ plasm throughout your entire fertile period and never come across two gametes that could be combined in this combination.’”

“‘How about mutations?’” I asked him. “He just shrugged it off. ‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘it’s damned hard to pick out a mutation in the gene pattern of a gamete itself. You generally have to wait for the new characteristic to show up in the adult zygote, then try to locate the variation in the gene pattern. And you need at least thirty mutations, happening all at once, to get the child you want. It’s not mathematically possible.’”

“So you gave up the idea of planned children?”

“So we gave up the idea of children period. Martha offered to be host-mother to any child I could get, but I said ‘No, if it ain’t for us, it ain’t for us.’”

“Hmmm. I suppose so. Look—if you and your wife are both naturals, why do you bother to run this place? The citizen’s allowances plus two control benefits add up to quite a tidy income. You don’t look like a man with extravagant tastes.”

“I’m not. To tell you the truth we tried it, after our disappointment. But it didn’t work out. We got uneasy and fretful. Martha comes to me and says ‘Herbert, please yourself, but
I’m
going to start my hairdressing studio again.’ And I agreed with her. So here we are.”

“Yes, so we are,” Hamilton concurred. “It’s a queer world. Let’s have another drink.”

Herbert polished the bar before replying. “Mister, I wouldn’t feel right about selling you another unless you checked that gun with me and let me loan you a brassard.”

“So? Well, in that case I guess I’ve had enough. Good night.”

“G’night.”

“Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, Thief—”

H
IS TELEPHONE started to yammer as soon as he was home. “Nuts to you,” said Hamilton. “I’m going to get some sleep.” The first three words were the code cut-off to which he had set the instrument; it stopped mournfully in the middle of its demand.

Hamilton swallowed eight hundred units of thiamin as a precautionary measure, set his bed for an ample five hours of sleep, threw his clothes in the general direction of the service valet, and settled down on the sheet. The water rose gently under the skin of the mattress until he floated, dry and warm and snug. The lullaby softened as his breathing became regular. When his respiration and heart action gave positive proof of deep sleep, the music faded out unobtrusively, shut off without so much as a click.

“It’s like this,” Monroe-Alpha was telling him, “we’re faced with a surplusage of genes. Next quarter every citizen gets ninety-six chromosomes—” “But I don’t like it,” Hamilton protested. Monroe-Alpha grinned gleefully. “You have to like it,” he proclaimed. “Figures don’t lie. Everything comes out even. I’ll show you.” He stepped to his master accumulator and started it. The music swelled up, got louder. “See?” he said. “That proves it.” The music got louder.