Dangerous Visions (20 page)

Three, the Triple Revolution document writers, it seems to me, are looking ahead only to the next fifty years. I jumped to 2166 A.D. because I'm sure that energy-matter conversion and duplication of material objects will be available by then. Probably before then. This belief is based on present developments in physics. (The protein computers mentioned in the story have already been predicted in a recent
Science News Letter
. I anticipated this in a science fiction story in 1955. As far as I know, my prediction was the first mention of protein computers in literature of any kind, science fiction, scientific, or otherwise.) Mankind will no longer have to rely on agriculture, stock-raising, fishing, or mining. Moreover, the cities will tend to become completely independent of national governments except as they need them to avoid international war. The struggle between the city-states and federal government is only implied in this story.

Four, the Triple Revolution document writers showed humility and good sense when they stated that they did not know as yet how to plan our society. They insist that a study of great width and depth must be made first and then the carrying out of recommendations should be done cautiously.

Five, I doubt that this will be done with the depth and caution required. The times are too pressing; the hot breath of Need is on our necks. Besides, the proper study of mankind has always been too much entangled with politics, prejudice, bureaucracy, selfishness, stupidity, ultraconservatism, and one trait all of us share: downright ignorance.

Six, despite which, I understand that our world
must
be planned, and I wish the planners good luck in their dangerous course.

Seven, I could be wrong.

Eight, I hope I am.

This story was written primarily as a story, not as a sounding board for ideas or as a prophecy. I became too interested in my characters. And, although the basic idea came from Lou Barron, he is responsible for nothing in the story. In fact, I doubt very much that he will like it.

Whatever the reception to the story, I had fun writing it.

In a context almost obstinately dedicated to new, young voices in speculative fiction, it is bewildering to find a story by a woman who has been a professional longer than I've
lived!
It is either a testimonial to the invigorating qualities inherent in this kind of writing, or to the singular nature of the woman. I would opt for the latter, as would you, had you ever met Miriam deFord. She is the kind of person who would deliver you a glance to wither asparagus should you mention semantic nonsense like "senior citizen" or "sun city." She would then, most likely, level you with a scathing aphorism from Schopenhauer ("The first forty years of life give us the text: the next thirty supply the commentary") or possibly Ortega y Gasset ("A girl of fifteen generally has a greater number of secrets than an old man, and a woman of thirty more arcana than a chief of state"). And if neither of those did it, then how about a fast
fumikomi
on the right instep?

Miriam Allen deFord, aside from being the auctorially renowned deFord who wrote
The Overbury Affair
and
Stone Walls
—semi-classic studies in crime and punishment—is the author of ten, no, make that eleven books of history or biography. She is a stellar light in the field of crime fact and fiction. She is a favorite of s-f and fantasy readers. She has published incredible amounts of Latin translations, literary biography and criticism, articles on political and sociological themes; she was for many years a labor journalist; she is a much-published poet, including a volume of collected verse,
Penultimates
. A Philadelphian by birth, she lives and has lived most of her life where her heart is, in San Francisco. In private life she is Mrs. Maynard Shipley, whose late husband (who died in 1934) was a well-known writer and lecturer on scientific subjects.

I won't mention Miss deFord's age but I feel that a miracle is being suppressed. In a time when Everyman questions the sanity of the Universe, every morsel of wonder must be heralded, to reassure us one and all that there is hope and harmony in the scheme of things. For let us face the sad but omnipresent fact: most people of maturity, of substantial age, in our culture, are crotchety hearkeners after their lost youth. But Miriam deFord defies convention. For charm, few can equal her. For persuasiveness, none can approach. (Proof of this last is that the editor of this book wanted to retitle her story "Cells of Memory," or somesuch silly nonsense thing. Miss deFord "persuaded" the editor that he was making an ass of himself. Her original title stands, and the editor, though defeated, was not made to feel demeaned by the lady's arguments. That, children, is known as class.) But none of these, and certainly not her age, are what draw our attention. The vigor of her writing, the originality and uncompromising view she brings to a perplexing, pressing contemporary problem is what arrests us here.

Miriam Allen deFord serves the invaluable purpose, in this anthology and in the field as a whole, of being an object lesson. It is not merely the tots who can think hard, new thoughts and set them down in a compelling manner. If the writer
be
a writer, to hell with chronological labels. Knowing her age or not, you would have been impressed with the story. It makes one pause to consider how valid are the claims of writers who beg off for wretched writing on the grounds of age. Miriam deFord has a swift kick for them, even as her story has a swift kick for us.
Hie!

SHEP:

"Is it far?" she asked. "I have to get home for my school telecast; I just slipped out to buy a vita-sucker. I'm in cybernetics already, and I'm only seven," she added boastfully.

I forced my voice out of a croak.

"No, only a step, and it won't take you a minute. My little girl asked me to come and get you. She described you so I'd know you."

The child looked doubtful.

"You don't look old enough to have a little girl. And I don't know who she is."

"Right down here." I held her skinny shoulder firmly.

"Down these steps? I don't like—"

I glanced around quickly; nobody in sight. I pushed her through the dark doorway and fastened the bolt.

"Why, you're a bomb-sight squatter!" she cried in terror. "You couldn't have a—"

"Shut up!" I clamped my hand over her mouth and threw her on the pile of rags that served me for a bed. Her feeble struggle was only an incitation. I ripped her shorts from her shaking legs.

Oh, God! Now, now, now! The blood tickled.

The child tore her head loose and screamed, just as I was sinking into blissful lassitude. Furious, I circled her thin neck and pounded her head against the cement floor until blood and brains leaked from the shattered skull.

Without moving further, I let myself fall asleep. I never heard the pounding on the door.

CARLO:

"There's one!" Ricky said, pointing down.

My eyes followed his finger. Huddled under the framework of the moving sidewalk was a dark inert bundle.

"Can we get down?"

"He did, and he's high on goofer-dust or something, or he wouldn't be there."

There was nobody in sight; it was nearly twenty-four o'clock, and people were either home or still in some joy-joint. We'd been roaming the streets for hours, looking for something to break the monotony.

We managed, hand over hand. Those things are electrified, but you learn how to avoid the hot spots.

Ricky pulled out his atom-flash. It was an old geezer—in his second century, looked like—and dead to the world. He ought to've had more sense, at his age. He deserved whatever we gave him.

We gave him plenty. Boy, he waked up right away and started screeching, but I fixed that with a heel on his face. You ought to've seen him when we got his clothes off—nasty gray hair on his chest, all his ribs showing, but a big potbelly, and withered where we started carving. It was disgusting; we marked him up but good. He might have seen us, so I pushed his eyes in. Then I gave him a boot in the throat to keep him quiet, we went through his pockets—he didn't have much left after all the goofer he'd bought, but we took his credit codes in case we could figure out a way to use them without being caught—and we left him there and started to climb back.

We were halfway up when we heard the damned cop-copter buzzing above us.

MIRIAMNI:

"You're crazy," he snarled at me. "What the hell do you think—that I married you by ancient rites and you have some kind of hold on me?"

I could scarcely talk for crying.

"Don't you owe me some consideration?" I managed to say. "After all, I gave up other men for you."

"Don't be so damned possessive. You sound like some throwback to the Darker Age. When I want you and you want me, oke. The rest of the time we're both free. And it was the other men that gave
you
up, wasn't it?"

That put the stop-off to it. I reached behind the video-wall, where I'd cached the old-fashioned laser gun Grandpa gave me when I was a kid—it still worked, and he'd shown me how to use it—and I let him have it. Phft-phft, right between his lying lips.

I couldn't stop till it was empty. I guess I kalumphed then. The next thing I knew my son Jon by my first man opened the door with his print-key and there we both were, flat on the floor, but I was the only one alive. Oh, curse Jon and his degree in humanistics and his sense of civic duty!

RICHIE B:

Utterly uncontempojust! He was only a lousy Extraterry, and I was only having some fun. This is 2083, isn't it, and the new rules were issued two years ago, and Extraterries are supposed to know their place and not bull in where they're not wanted. The play-park was posted "Humans Only," and there he was, standing right by the booth where I had a date to meet Marta. He had a tape in his paw, so I guess he was a tourist, but they ought to find out what's what before they buy their tickets. Oughtn't to be allowed on Earth at all, to my way of thinking.

Instead of running, he had the nerve to speak to me. "Can you tell me," he began in that silly wheezing voice they have, with the filthy accent.

I was early, so I thought I'd see what happened next. "Yee-oh, I can tell you," I mimicked him. "One thing I can tell you is, you've got too many fingers on those forepaws to suit my taste."

He looked bewildered and I could hardly keep from laughing. I looked all around—those booths are private and there was nobody near, and I could see clear to the helipark and Marta wasn't in sight yet. I reached under my wraparound and got out my little snickeree I carry to defend myself.

"And I hate prehensile tails," I added. "I hate 'em, but I collect 'em. Gimme yours."

I leaned down and grabbed it and began to saw at the base.

Then he did yell and try to run, but I held fast. I'd just meant to scare him a little, but he made me mad. And the violet-colored blood turned me sick, and that made me still madder. I was on guard for him to try to hit me, but damned if he didn't just flop in a faint. Hell, you can't tell about those Extraterries—for all I know, he might have been a she.

I got the tail off, and shook it to drain the blood, and I was all set to give him—it—one behind the ear and dump it down under the bushes, when I heard somebody coming up. I thought it was Marta, and she's always game for a kick, so I called, "Hey, sac-charine, look at the souvenir I just got for you!"

But it wasn't Marta. It was one of those slimy Planet Fed snoopers.

BRATHMORE:

I am hungry again. I am a strong, vital person; I need real nourishment. Do those fools expect me to live on neutrosynthetics and predigestos forever? When I am hungry I must eat.

And this time I was lucky. My little notice brings them always, but not always just what I need; then I have to let them go and wait for the next one. Just the right age—juicy and tender, but not too young. Too young there is no meat on the bones.

I am methodical; I keep a record. This was Number 78. And all in four years, since I got the inspiration to put the notice in the public communitape. "Wanted: partner for dance act, man or girl, 16—23 years old." Because after that, if they really are dancers, their muscles get tough.

With the twenty-hour week, every other compute-tender and service trainee goes in for some Leisure Cult, and I had a hunch a lot of them want to be pro dancers. I didn't
say
I was on tridimens or sensalive or in a joy-joint, but where else could I be?

"How old are you? Where have you trained? How long? What can you do? I'll turn on the music, and you show me."

They didn't show me long—long enough for me to give them the full once-over. I have a real office, on the 270th floor of the Sky-High Rise, no less. All very respectable. My name—or a name I use—on the door. "Entertainment Business."

The satisfactory ones, I say, "Oke. Now we'll go to my practice hall, and we'll see how we do together."

We go up and copt over—but that's to my hide-out. Sometimes they get nervous, but I soothe them. If I can't, I land at the nearest port and just say, "All out, brother or sister as the case may be. I can't work with anyone who hasn't confidence in me."

Twice the fuzz has come to my office on some simpleton's complaint, but I've got that fixed. I wouldn't have thought of dancing if I didn't have my credentials. You'd have known me once—I was a pro myself for twenty years.

The ones that disappear, nobody ever bothers about. Usually they haven't told anybody where they were going. If they have, and I'm asked, I just say they never came, and nobody can prove they did.

So here's Number 78. Female, nineteen, nice and plump but not muscle-bound yet.

Once home, the rest's easy. "Get into your tutu, sister, and we'll go to the practice room. Dressing room right in there."

The dressing room's gassed when I press the button. It takes about six minutes. Then to my specially fitted kitchen. Clothes into the incinerator. Macerator and dissolver for metal and glass. Contact lenses, jewelry, money, all goes in: I'm no thief. Then into the oven, well greased and seasoned.