The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays (23 page)

NAT
: You read this?

KETEN
(slowly)
: Toy . . . Dis . . . pen . . . ser.

NAT
: You like to read?

Keten shakes her head.

DEANIE
(quickly)
: Who does?
(To Keten)
Like stories on tape?
(Keten brightens)
Like to make stories?

KETEN
: I like to listen.

Deanie smiles. But Nat is alerted by this answer.

NAT
: Just listen?
(Moving closer)
What about math . . . measuring . . . simple computation? Like those?

Keten shakes her head. Then she brightens.

KETEN
: Soon be no more of those.

NAT
: No more?

KETEN
: Next year I not do any. All finish.
(Happily)
No more reading, no more learning.

NAT
: Who said so?

KETEN
(proudly)
: We had a test.

Nat looks at Deanie, appalled.

NAT
: They can’t! They got no—!
(He draws away from the child as if she is suddenly proved unclean)
If she get sent out there . . . !

DEANIE
: Nat!

NAT
: It all goes on my record! And your record too! What about that!

For an instant Deanie hardly grasps his meaning. Then she is on her feet and is at his shoulder, whispering fiercely:

DEANIE
: Stop it! Think about her!

NAT
: “L” for low-drive! It was!

DEANIE
: Nat!

NAT
: Thing like this, they start to recap the lot! All your past checks! Genetic feedback, they name it—

KETEN
: Who gets sent?

She is listening, tense, not understanding yet but afraid of their sudden alarm. And rapidly working it out.

DEANIE
(clutching his arm)
: See, you upset her—

KETEN
: Who gets sent?

DEANIE
: Nobody.

KETEN
(dogged and shrill)
: You said she!

Nat stares at the child, dimly recognising her apprehension as something like his own. She stands there twisting the plastic toy in her hands. Her eyes are round and accusing. For the first time she is a real person to him.

DEANIE
: Keten—

KETEN
: Who’s she? What do you mean?

It suddenly seems vital to get in between her and the knowledge. As soon as Deanie touches her she stiffens.

DEANIE
: He—he got it all mixed up, Keten. He got it all wrong.
(She looks to Nat for support)
Take her hand. Tell her.

Nat comes forward. He is surprised by the smallness of the hand. Surprised, too, to find himself so moved when he addresses her directly by name.

NAT
: Keten. I got it all wrong.

INSIDE THE PRODUCTION POD

To the tune of the standard march-lullaby, numbered bodies are squirming on the big screen. Nat and Lasar Opie are at the control desk. Misch is in her plastic dome.

MISCH
: . . . Ylla Basie and Don Goon. Don’s one of the new top finds of Area 27 . . . since he teamed up with Ylla he come a long way.

OPIE
: Pretty. Real pretty style, this two.

Nat hardly notices. He is still deep in his spasm of self-discovery. He turns to the Audience Sampler. The usual faces are there, heavy and vacant. There are young people among them, quite young anyway. As apathetic as the rest but still young . . .

INSIDE NAT’S ROOM

Nat is lying on his back on the bench-shaped seat in his room, lost in thought. The big screen is bright with an Artsex show accompanied, musically, by a twee and gracious version of a bump-and-grind. Misch is standing in front of the screen, imitating the motions of the performer, though she is fully dressed.

MISCH
: What got you, coddy?
(Nat does not reply)
You sick?

NAT
: No.

MISCH
: You look sick or tired. Is it work?

NAT
: No.

MISCH
: Olympics bother you?
(He turns away without replying)
Grumpy coddy!
(She continues her copied poses. We do not see the screen now, only guess what it shows from her attitudes)
She got a big shelf, this bubby. Real jumbo shelf.
(Comparing her own bosom)
Not so pretty, though. Walks funny, too, sort of lope.
(She walks up and down in savage imitation)
Where they get this talent! Talent . . . ! Look at that . . . stands like a dispenser out of order!
(Swaying grotesquely)
Oooh! Hold me up, somebody! Lemme hang on the drapes . . . !
(Laughing)
Where they get ’em! Bet they got this last one out there.

Her words register with Nat at last.

NAT
: Out there?

MISCH
: Oh, coddy—you awake?
(Sarcastically)
Super-king!

NAT
: What about out there?

MISCH
(still gyrating)
: They find much talent out there?

NAT
: Not much. Got to be high-drive. Just odd ones turn up.

MISCH
: This bubby real odd. They need to throw her back.
(To get away from it, Nat rises and throws himself face down on the bed. Misch turns with a lecherous squeal)
That better! Just a minute, I be right with you . . . just watch this bit . . .

NAT
(wearily)
: Knock it off.

MISCH
: Knock what off?

NAT
: Don’t like the show—so knock it off.

But Misch, having finally got his attention, is turning coquettish.

MISCH
: Not like it?
Why
not? Not her, maybe, not this one bubby, but I like Artsex. I like to watch. So don’t tell me to knock it off—
(Undemonstratively but effectively, Nat covers his ears. She has turned back to the screen and does not notice)
I got an idea. Nat . . . what say I switch to Artsex? Not just talkie-talk but do her job? Do it a lot better than
that
. . . better than her. I walk better . . . got a better shape . . . move better when I—!

She breaks off with a frightened scream.

It penetrates Nat’s ear defences and he springs up to see her shrinking back from the screen in horror. The screen is filled with Kin Hodder’s latest picture, that he drew on the tray . . . the stark and awful face of the man in agony.

Misch’s shocked screams go on, shorter and sharper . . .

INSIDE THE PRODUCTION POD

Co-ordinator Priest frowns down at the ratings strip in the control desk. Its light throbs.

PRIEST
: Look at that. Ratings still jumpy after 20 hours!
(He turns sympathetically to the Audience Sampler, where a certain amount of uneasy movement is detectable)
They got a real upset.

The big monitor screen shows only random, unfocussed movement, as the studio below is readied for the evening’s Sportsex. In the pod with Priest are Nat and Lasar Opie.

OPIE
: Find him yet?

PRIEST
: Kin Hodder? No—ran off as soon as he did it. Must be hiding up. Lots of places. Store sections, casings . . .
(Guessing what Nat is thinking)
We checked on Deanie Webb.

NAT
: Oh.

PRIEST
: Not gone there.

OPIE
(hungrily)
: What happens when you get him?

PRIEST
: We help him.

NAT
: If you can.

PRIEST
: If we can.
(A new girl introducer pushes past on her way to the domed booth)
Where’s Misch?

NAT
: Still a bit in shock.

OPIE
(to desk)
: Studio, start warm-up.

He goes to help the girl get settled in the booth.

PRIEST
: Not the only one, a long way. Out there it was bad, bad, bad. We got reports in from all areas that picture got to . . . they shudder me, Nat. Nat, were you mixed up in it?

The question is shot in so quickly that Nat is taken aback.

NAT
: Me?

PRIEST
(quietly)
: He showed it to you. Some others too.

NAT
: Who said?
(He glances at the unaware Opie, then:)
Not Deanie. Misch?

PRIEST
(admitting it)
: She’s not so much in shock as you think. Well? Did you put him up to it?

NAT
: No . . . no.

PRIEST
: I buy that. Glad to, Nat. This is a dirty thing—to throw
that
at a quiet, cosy audience right in the middle of a—

NAT
: Did you see it?

Priest nods, with an expression of extreme distaste at the memory.

PRIEST
: Later. It was made on a tray.

NAT
: I saw them all.
(Priest clucks sympathetically)
They were . . . we not got words for them, Co-ordinator. Maybe you got some. Old-days words.

PRIEST
(grimly)
: I got some. Filthy. Disgusting. Offensive. Foul. Disturbing. And all those add up to one word . . . the worst word of the lot. Tension!

NAT
: Tension. That was what he said. “I
want
tension!”

PRIEST
(appalled)
: He said that . . . !

THE RECREATION AREA

Priest and Nat are gulping down brighteners in the Recreation Area. There are a number of other Output personnel present, talking more animatedly than usual. The big wall-screen shows a Patterning programme, with soft music.

NAT
: Still not feel I got . . . the right words for it. They got to be some place. Where they go, Co-ordinator?
Why
they go, all those words?

PRIEST
: People didn’t need ’em. They got out of having the thoughts, so the words went too.

NAT
: Thoughts . . .
(Slowly, making a discovery)
Those pictures were thoughts!

PRIEST
: Eh?

NAT
: That what they felt like. Old, old thoughts you had . . . real jumbo thoughts but you forgot you ever had ’em . . . until you
saw!

PRIEST
: Bad thoughts.

NAT
: Why bad?

PRIEST
: If they upset people.

NAT
: Just the way they came out. You know, I can feel ’em now . . . in my head. I can think ’em. But I got no words for ’em.

PRIEST
: They hurt?

NAT
: No.
(He considers)
Well, a bit.

PRIEST
: Bad.

NAT
: Maybe . . . maybe we need ’em just the same. Maybe we need to try ’em . . . try all kinds of thoughts.

PRIEST
: Maybe is a terrible word. Oh Nat . . .
(He sighs and turns away, to fetch up by the Auto-chess. Most of the other people have drifted out of the Recreation Area. He takes a plastic ploy at random and shoves it into the slot to make the chessmen start moving)
I remember . . . no, I don’t, but I remember the people who do remember. The time before Apathy Control. That was the real “maybe” time. Everything got tried then. Bombs and books and prayers . . . and love and the last of the politics. It all added up to tension. And the more tension, the more people they got. They were just building up the explosion.

NAT
: Crazy!

PRIEST
: It shuddered them all. And they tried more things to stop it. You know—
(He splutters with laughter)
—you know, they even tried to stop it with the Pill!

The sheer absurdity of it makes Nat burst into laughter too.

NAT
: Not the Pill!

PRIEST
: Tried to force it, and they got the Virility Wars! Tried dropping it in the drinking water and they got revolution!
(He wipes his eyes, chuckling and gasping. He looks at the cluster of dead brighteners clutched in his hand. He wheezes)
Thought these things . . . supposed to cancel out.

NAT
(nods hazily and happily)
: After ten.

PRIEST
(chuckling again)
: Must be on top of . . . all the strain.
(They are both as if slightly tight. Priest tries to sober himself, and instead drifts into a faintly maudlin mood)
Anywise, we got Apathy Control. Good old Apathy Control. Saved us all.
(He looks earnestly at Nat, who is sucking another brightener, and takes one more himself)
It did, Nat.

NAT
(equally solemnly)
: Keep Cool, Cool the Audience, Cool the World.

PRIEST
: It was what the world wanted. Just to call a big halt. No more . . . progress. It was done kindly. Not by lasering foetuses . . . chemical conditioning . . . electrodes . . . threats. None of that. Just by gentle discouragement.
(He looks fuzzily at the crunched brighteners)
They
meant
to cancel.
(He takes another and sucks it)
The world having a rest, Nat. All them out there, waiting. You know what they are? A reservoir . . . of genes. A huge genetic stockpile . . . just . . . waiting till it’s safe to go on again.