Our Friends From Frolix 8 (2 page)

Contributions by Unusuals had been more specific; they had to do with operations involving actual entities. So – at least as he, a New Man, saw it – his race had contributed the underlying pinions of the reshaped map of the universe, and the Unusuals had done their work in the form of application of these general structures.

The Unusuals, he knew, would not have agreed with this. But that did not bother him.

I have a G-three rating, he said to himself. And I have done a little; I have added a jot to our collective knowledge. No Old Man, however gifted, could have done so. Except perhaps Thors Provoni. But Thors Provoni had been absent for years; he did not stir the sleep of either Unusuals or New Men. Provoni raged and roamed the outskirts of the galaxy, searching, in his wrath, for something vague, something even metaphysical. An answer, to so speak. A response. Thors Provoni yelled into the emptiness, dinning out his noise in hope of a response.

God help us, Weiss thought, if he ever finds it.

But he was not afraid of Provoni; neither were his peers. A few nervous Unusuals muttered among themselves as the months turned into years and still Provoni did not die and was not captured. Thors Provoni constituted an anachronism: he remained the last of the Old Men who could not accept history, who dreamed of orthodox and thoughtless action… he lived in a dismal past, most of it not even real, a dreamless and dead past which could not be recalled, even by a man as gifted, as educated, as active as Provoni. He is a pirate, Weiss said to himself, a quasi-romantic figure, steeped in exploits. In a sense I will miss him when he dies. After all, we emerged from the Old Men; we are related to him. Distantly.

To his superior, Pikeman, he said, ‘It’s a burden. You are very right.’ A burden, he thought, this task, this Civil Service rating. I can’t fly up into the stars; I can’t pursue something which does not exist into the remote windings of the universe. How will I feel, he wondered, when we destroy Thors Provoni? My work, he thought, will be just that much more tedious. And yet I like it. I would not give it up. To be a New Man is to be something.

Maybe I’m a victim of our own propaganda, he reflected.

‘When Appleton comes in with his boy,’ Pikeman said, ‘give little Robert the entire test… then tell them the rating won’t be ready for another week or so. That way the blow will be less hard to endure.’ He grinned starkly and added,
‘And you won’t have to deliver the news – it’ll be in the form of a written notice.’

‘I don’t mind telling them,’ Weiss said. But he did. Because, probably, it would not be the truth.

The truth, he thought.
We
are the truth; we create it: it is ours. Together we have drawn a new chart. As we grow, it grows with us; we change. Where will we be next year? he asked himself. No way to know… except for the precogs among the Unusuals, and they saw many futures at one time, like – he had heard – rows of boxes.

His secretary’s voice came from the intercom. ‘Mr. Weiss, a Mr. Nicholas Appleton and his son are here to see you.’

‘Send them in,’ Weiss said, and leaned back in his large, imitation-naugahide chair, preparing to greet them. On his desk the test-form lay; he fiddled with it reflectively, seeing it, from the corner of his eye, assume various shapes. He squeezed his eyes almost shut for an instant… and made the form, in his mind, exactly what he wanted it to be.

Kleo Appleton, in their tiny apartment, glanced swiftly at her watch and trembled. So late, she thought. And so little, little use. Maybe they’ll never come back; maybe they’ll say the wrong thing and be whisked off to one of those internment camps you hear of.

‘He’s a fool,’ she said to the television set. And, from the speaker of the set, a chorus of clapping sounded as the irreal ‘audience’ applauded.

‘Mrs. Kleo Appleton,’ the ‘announcer’ said, ‘of North Platte, Idaho, says her husband is a fool. What do you think about that, Ed Garley?’ A fat round face appeared on the screen as television personality Ed Garley pondered a witty reply. ‘Would you say it’s perfectly absurd for a grown man to imagine for an instant that—’

She shut off the set with a wave of her hand.

From the stove, in the far wall of the living room, the smell of ersatz apple pie drifted. She had spent half her week’s wage coupons on it, along with three yellow ration stamps. And they’re not here for it, she said to herself. But I guess that isn’t so important. In comparison to everything else. This was, perhaps, the most important day in her son’s life.

She needed someone to talk to. While she waited. The TV set, this time, would not do.

Leaving the apartment, she crossed the hall, knocked at Mrs. Arlen’s door.

It opened. Frowsy-haired, middle-aged Mrs. Rose Arlen peered out, turtle-like. ‘Oh, Mrs. Appleton.’

Kleo Appleton said, ‘Do you still have Mr. Cleaner? I need him. I want to get everything right so it’ll look nice when Nick and Bobby get back. You see, Bobby is taking the test, today. Isn’t that wonderful?’

‘They’re rigged,’ Mrs. Arlen said.

‘The people who say that,’ Kleo said, ‘are people who’ve failed the test, or someone related to them has. There are countless people who pass every day, most of them children like Bobby.’

‘I’ll bet.’

Frostily, Kleo said, ‘Do you have Mr. Cleaner? I’m entitled to three hours of use a week and I haven’t had him this week at all.’

With reluctance, Mrs. Arlen puttered off, was gone for a few moments, and then returned pushing pompous, lofty Mr. Cleaner, the internal maintenance man of the building. ‘Good day, Mrs. Appleton,’ Mr. Cleaner whined tinnily, seeing her. ‘Well plug me in but it’s nice to see you again. Good morning, Mrs. Appleton. Well plug me in but it’s—’

She pulled him across the hall and into her own apartment.

To Mrs. Arlen, Kleo said, ‘Why are you so hostile to me? What did I ever do to you?’

‘I’m not hostile,’ Rose Arlen said. ‘I’m just trying to wake you up to the truth. If the test was on the level, our daughter Carol would have passed. She can hear thoughts, at least a little; she’s a genuine Unusual, as much as anyone in Civil Service classifications. A lot of rated Unusuals, they lose their ability because—’

‘I’m sorry; I have to clean.’ Kleo firmly shut the door, turned to look for an outlet in which to plug in Mr. Cleaner—

She halted. And stood unmoving.

A man, small and grubby-looking, with beaked nose and thin, agile features, wearing a seedy cloth coat and unpressed trousers, confronted her. He had entered the apartment while she had been talking to Mrs. Arlen.

‘Who are you?’ Kleo asked, and felt her heart labor with fear. She sensed about the man a furtive atmosphere; he seemed ready to dodge out of sight… his eyes, narrow and dark, peeped nervously here and there, as if, she thought, he’s making sure he knows all the ways out of the apartment.

The man said huskily, ‘I’m Darby Shire.’ He stared at her fixedly, and on his face the hunted expression grew. ‘I’m an
old friend,’ he said, ‘of your husband’s. When will he be home, and can I stay here until he comes?’

‘They’ll be home any minute now,’ she said. She still did not move; she kept as far away from Darby Shire – if that was really his name – as possible. ‘I have to clean the apartment before they get back,’ she said. But she did not plug Mr. Cleaner in. She kept her gaze, her scrutiny of Darby Shire, unaltered. What’s he so afraid of? she wondered. Are they after him, the Public Security Service? And if so, what has he done?

‘I’d like a cup of coffee,’ Shire said. He ducked his head, as if avoiding the pleading quality in his own voice. As if he did not approve of himself asking for anything from her, but needing it, having to have it, any way.

‘May I see your identab?’ Kleo said.

‘Be my guest.’ Shire rummaged in the bulging pockets of his coat, brought out a handful of plastic cards; he tossed them onto the chair beside Kleo Appleton. ‘Take as many as you want.’

‘
Three
identabs?’ she said, incredulously. ‘But you can’t own more than one. It’s against the law.’

Shire said, ‘Where is Nick?’

‘With Bobby. At the Federal Bureau of Personnel Standards.’

‘Oh, you have a son.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘You can see how long it’s been since I last had anything to do with Nick. Is the boy New? Unusual?’

‘New,’ Kleo said. She made her way across the living room to the v-fone. Lifting the receiver she began to dial.

‘Who are you calling?’ Shire asked.

‘The Bureau. To see if Nick and Bobby have left already.’

Striding towards the v-fone, Shire said, ‘They won’t remember; they won’t know who you’re talking about. Don’t you understand how they are?’ He reached, cut off the v-fone’s circuit. ‘Read my book.’ Groping among his various pockets, he came up with a paperback book, bent, with wrinkled pages and stains, its cover torn; he held it out to her.

‘God, I don’t want it,’ Kleo said with revulsion.

‘Take it. Read and understand what we must do to rid ourselves of the New and Unusual tyranny that blights our lives, that makes a mockery of everything man tries to do.’ He fumbled with the greasy, torn book, searching for a particular page. ‘Can I have a cup of coffee now?’ he asked plaintively. ‘I can’t seem to find the reference I want; it’s going to take some time.’

She pondered a moment, then strode off into the kitchen cubicle, to heat water for the instant, ersatz coffee.

‘You can stay five minutes,’ Kleo said to Shire. ‘And if Nick isn’t back by then you’ll have to leave.’

‘Are you afraid of getting caught here with me?’ Shire asked.

‘I – just find myself getting tense,’ she said. Because I know what you are, she thought. And I’ve seen bent, mutilated books like that before, dreary books carried here and there in dirty pockets, pawed over in stealth and in secret. ‘You’re a member of RID,’ she said aloud.

Shire grinned crookedly. ‘RID is too passive. They want to work through the ballot box.’ He had found the reference he wanted, but now he looked too weary to show it to her; he merely stood there, holding onto his book. ‘I spent two years in a government prison,’ he said presently. ‘Give me some coffee and I’ll leave; I won’t wait for Nick. He probably can’t do anything for me anyhow.’

‘What did you think he could do? Nick doesn’t work for the government; he doesn’t have any—’

‘That’s not what I need. I’m out legally; I served my term. Could I stay here? I don’t have any money or any place to go. I thought of everyone I could remember who might help me and then I thought of Nick by a process of elimination.’ He accepted the cup of coffee, handing her the book in return. ‘Thanks,’ he said as he greedily sipped. ‘Do you know,’ he said, wiping his mouth, ‘that the entire structure of power on this planet is going to crumble away from rot? Internal rot… we’ll be able, some day, to push it over with a stick. A few key men – Old Men – here and there both inside and outside the Civil Service apparatus and—’ He made a violent, sweeping gesture. ‘It’s all in my book. Keep it and
read it; read how the New Men and the Unusuals manipulate us via their control of all the media and of—’

‘You’re insane,’ Kleo said.

‘Not any longer.’ Shire shook his head, his rat-like features twisting with intensity, a swift and emotional repudiation of her words. ‘When they arrested me three years ago I was clinically and legally insane – paranoia, they said – but before they would release me I had to take more psych tests, and now I’m able to prove my sanity.’ He fumbled about in his many pockets once more. ‘I even have the official documentation with me, I carry it around.’

Kleo said, ‘They should check on you again.’ God, she thought. Is Nick never going to get home?

‘The government,’ Shire said, ‘is planning a programme of sterilization of all Old Men males. Did you know that?’

‘I don’t believe it.’ She had heard many such wild rumours, but none of them ever turned out to be true… or anyhow most of them. ‘You say that,’ she said, ‘to justify force and violence, your own illegal activities.’

‘We have a Xerox copy of the bill; it’s already been signed by seventeen Councilmen out of—’

The television set clicked itself on and said, ‘A news bulletin. Advance units of the Third Army report that the
Gray Dinosaur
, the ship in which Citizen Thors Provoni left the Sol System, has been located circling Proxima with no signs of life. At present, tugs of the Third Army are engaged in grappling that apparently abandoned spaceship, and it is believed that Provoni’s body will be discovered within the next hour. Stay near your set for further bulletins.’ The television clicked itself off, its message delivered.

A strange, almost convulsive shudder swept through Darby Shire; he grimaced, clutched with his right arm… he bit savagely into empty air, then, his eyes gleaming, he turned back to face Kleo. ‘They will never get him,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘And I’ll tell you why. Thors Provoni is an Old Man, the best of us, and superior to any New Men or Unusuals.
He will return to this system with help.
As he promised. Somewhere out there help exists for us, and he will find it, even if it takes eighty years. He’s not looking for
a world we can colonize; he’s looking for
them.
’ He eyed Kleo searchingly. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? Nobody does – our rulers have control of all information, even about Provoni. But that’s what it’s all about; Provoni will make us no longer alone and no longer in the control of mutational opportunists exploiting their so-called “abilities” as a pretext for grabbing power here on Terra and holding it forever.’ He wheezed noisily, his face writhing with intensity; his eyes had glazed over with his own fanaticism.

‘I see,’ she said. Repelled, she turned away.

‘Do you believe?’ Shire demanded.

Kleo said, ‘I believe you’re a devout supporter of Provoni; yes, I believe that.’ And I believe, she thought, that you are once again clinically and legally insane, as you were a couple of years ago.

‘Hi.’ Nick, with Bobby lagging after him, entered the apartment. He perceived Darby Shire. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

‘Did Bobby pass?’ Kleo asked.