The Martian Viking (4 page)

"Yeah," Biberkopf replied, holding two tiny silver spheres out to him. "If I don't watch out they might send me to the moon or something, right?"

Alderdice backed away. The man was mad; the government had been quite correct to draft him. Antipathy surged to the surface of Alderdice's mind, while a desire to try the onees lurked somewhere in the depths. He had to do something fast.

"Come on," Biberkopf urged him. "Give it a try."

"I couldn't do a thing like that," Alderdice said weakly. "I'd be breaking the law."

"And a P.A. can't break the law, can he?" the suspect goaded. "Some kind of brain implants make them obey at all times, right?"

Now Alderdice saw how clever the man was. "Biberkopf," he said, "please."

"Call me Smitty," Johnsmith said. "Everybody does . . .except for Ryan Effner." As soon as he mentioned Effner's name, he knew that it was his colleague and supposed friend who was the "repairman." But this notion was just paranoia, wasn't it? Rye wouldn't do that to his old buddy, would he? But why else would Ronindella have made him hide in the other room when Johnsmith called? Smitty II had been acting funny, too, and Ronindella had tried to get him out of sight as quickly as possible. She had been afraid that the boy would innocently reveal the truth, no doubt.

Johnsmith slowly came to realize that he was staring down at the soiled carpet, his guest waiting nervously for him to say something else. Even though he suspected that Sonny was an agent, he began to feel sorry for this muttering, overweight man.

"I . . .really should be going," Alderdice was saying. "If you should run into Judy . . ."

"Yeah, sure. We never called the building directory, did we? What was her name? Judy . . .?"

"Takahashi. Judy Takahashi. But it won't be necessary to call." Alderdice rose from the uncomfortable chair, saying nervously, "Thanks for the coffee . . .Mr . . . . I mean, Smitty."

Now that he heard his nickname, Biberkopf realized that nobody called him that anymore. He really didn't have any friends to speak of nowadays. "Sure you won't try an onee or two," he said, feeling a trifle malicious.

"I've enjoyed talking to you," Sonny said, moving toward the door, "but I've really got to run."

Biberkopf rose, offering the film canister. "Give it a try," he coaxed. "I think you'll really like it."

The temptation to wrest the onees from Biberkopf's fingers and drop them into his open palm was terrific, but Alderdice's programming held true. He backed toward the door, dismayed at the churning ambivalence inside him. Clutching at the doorknob, he plopped the borsalino on his head and slipped out into the hallway. The last thing he saw as he shut the door was Johnsmith Biberkopf, gaunt, holding out the onees.

Alderdice was afraid that Biberkopf would come out after him, so he turned and ran the length of the hall and started down the stairs, wheezing and sweating, his flat feet slamming down on the steps almost painfully.

Ryan Effner wondered why the credit card had to be inserted before the session began. He guessed that there must have been some good reason for it, but whatever it was, Madame Psychosis would say nothing until his credit was approved. He wondered if this were true of all cybershrinks.

While he waited he watched a loop showing highlights from videos about the history of psychological spiritualism, opening with a pan of a Catholic Church confessional, followed by still photos of Madame Blavatsky, Freud, and Budd Hopkins, and seguéing into a short history of the cybershrink industry. The video darkened abruptly as the slot below the screen spat out his card, and the earthy figure of Madame Psychosis began to move ponderously.

"Good afternoon, Ryan," she said in an eastern European accent, exotic and profound, yet soothing at the same time.

"Good afternoon," he replied, the video still fresh in his mind. He was grateful that it was a machine he was talking to, and not a person. No matter how professional his demeanor, another human being could not really be trusted with one's darkest secrets.

"And how is Ronindella?"

"Fine. She's relieved that the government is taking her husband off her hands. Of course, Johnsmith will be helping her bring up her son even while he's on Luna."

"How do you
feel
about that?" Madame Psychosis asked.

"Well, Ronindella and I both think it's for the best."

"I'm not interested in what Ronindella thinks, but in what
you
feel."

"Well . . .I guess I've got what you'd call mixed feelings about it."

"Ambivalence. In what way do you feel ambivalent?"

"Well, Johnsmith is my friend."

"Yes?"

"And I feel funny, sneaking around with his wife until he gets off the planet."

"Why?"

Ryan toyed with the loose cloth of his jodhpurs. "I don't know. It just doesn't seem right."

"Do you feel that you have contributed to Mr. Biberkopf's problems?"

"Well, no . . .not exactly."

"Then why do you feel that you have wronged him?" Because of the Eastern European accent, the word "wronged" came out "ronked."

"If he knew what's going on, he'd be hurt."

"But you are trying to
prevent
him from finding out, are you not?"

Ryan peered at Madame Psychosis' full figure, her billowing skirts, and felt a surge of relief. She was right—he was trying to help Beeb, not hurt him. After all, it wasn't his fault that Beeb had blown it, as Madame Psychosis had explained to him during the last few sessions. If Beeb had sought out professional help, as Ryan had, he'd have held onto what he had, wouldn't have to worry about the Triple-S, and would probably feel a whole lot better about himself. Not probably: surely. It was, in a very real sense, all Beeb's own fault.

"I think I've got it all worked out now," he said to the cybershrink.

"Very good," said Madame Psychosis. "The vibrations of the universe are with you."

"And within my spirit," Ryan responded automatically, in the ritual of the Video Church of the New Age.

Madame Psychosis floated in a holographic depiction of the galaxies, saying in a reverberating voice, "May the eternal forces of goodness and purity bless you."

"Amen." Ryan made the sign of Aquarius and rose from the pew, as the stars did their cosmic dance around him. He was full of the divine, universal spirit. Even after he left the New Age building—erected, he recalled, in the first year of the millennium—he felt elated. The psychedelic gases he'd been inhaling during the session had something to do with it, he knew, but not that much. It would help Ronnie so much to see Madame Psychosis. So far he hadn't been able to talk her into trying a session, but he was certain that she would sense the spirit in him and be moved to come with him sooner or later.

Even at nine in the morning, the sun glowed amorphously through a peach-colored haze, and the temperature felt like 110°, but Ryan decided not to think about the oppressive weather. As he put on his protective head gear, he could think of little besides how complete his life was. He had a fulfilling career, a wonderful lover, and would soon have a fine son, too. He hadn't really connected with Smitty II yet, but it was only a matter of time. Ronindella's first visit to Madame Psychosis would expedite that process.

He began to whistle as he walked through the parking lot. And why shouldn't he? The best years of his life were just beginning.

Across town, Johnsmith Biberkopf emerged from a maglev bus in front of the local Conglom building. He was resigned, sober, and prepared for the inevitable. His only alternative had been suicide, and it was too late for that. Besides, he was certain he didn't have the courage to kill himself . . .if courage was indeed what it took.

The Conglom building was mid-twentieth century revival, a series of swooping lines and glass rectangles, designed to remind one of the original United Nations Building in New York. Of course, every city on Earth had one of these now, since the Conglom had franchised the UN, but Johnsmith had always felt that it was a charmingly quaint structure. He'd only been inside once before, when he was a little kid, for voice and fingerprint registration. He could remember it quite vividly, though, even if it had been over thirty years ago when he'd first walked through these glass doors.

He had wanted to take Smitty II down here for registration, when the boy was at the legal age for it, five, but Ronnie had insisted that their son go with his first grade class. She said that it would help to socialize the kid.

Johnsmith shrugged, standing in the immense lobby, uncertain of where he was supposed to go. He clutched his Triple-S pass in both hands.

"Follow the red line," the security net's voice said. It sounded exactly like Sir Laurence Olivier. Johnsmith looked around and saw a group of people lined up near a glowing, crimson bar that led into a corridor. He got behind the last person, a young woman with a hawkish, but not unattractive, face.

"I guess this is the line for induction," he said, trying to make conversation.

The woman glared back, saying nothing. Johnsmith wondered idly if the security net had misdirected him. The grim manner of the people queued up in front of him suggested that this was the correct place, though. He turned to see more people falling in behind him. None of them looked particularly happy.

Johnsmith saw a man walking through the lobby, the light glaring through the glass doors behind him. There was something familiar about his gait and bearing. As he came toward the queue, Johnsmith recognized him.

"Sonny!" he said. It was the guy who had been in his effapt yesterday.

Sonny looked at him, brow furrowing. He came toward Johnsmith. The other people didn't mind when he got in front of them in line.

"Come down here to check up on me, Sonny?" Johnsmith said bitterly. "You didn't really have to worry. I don't have the money to take off for Outer Mongolia. Even if I did, I imagine the government would catch up with me before long."

"I'm not here to check up on you," Sonny said. "I've been inducted, too."

The line advanced slowly, and they moved with it. Johnsmith was confused. "I thought you were a P.A."

"I am . . .or should I say I
was?
"

"I don't understand."

"It was real easy to put me in the ranks of the unemployed, especially since my job doesn't officially exist. They riffed me, and here I am."

"So soon?"

"Yeah, they process P.A.s real fast. But at least they gave me an option. Now or six weeks from now. I figured I might as well get it over with instead of hanging around brooding about it."

Johnsmith remained silent. His first impulse was to say well and good. Sonny had been instructed by the government to see to it that Johnsmith got drafted, and now he was in line at the Triple-S himself. There was irony for you. But for some reason, Johnsmith felt sorry for the poor guy. After all, Sonny had just been doing his job, hadn't he?

"I'm sorry this happened, Sonny," he said.

"My name isn't Sonny," the P.A. said. "It's Alderdice. Alderdice V. Lumumba."

Johnsmith nodded. "Well, it's still too bad you have to be here, too."

"I'm afraid it's been a long time coming," Alderdice admitted. "I guess I just wasn't cut out for this line of work."

"Well, we're both in the same boat now."

"This guy's a P.A.?" the hawkfaced woman said angrily. "Isn't it bad enough they're sending us to the moon, without having him here spying on us?"

An angry murmuring arose from the queue.

"He's not spying on us," Johnsmith said. "He's been drafted, just like the rest of us."

"How do you know it's true?" the woman demanded in a shrill tone.

"The government doesn't need him to spy on us; they're recording every sound, every move we make at this very moment." Johnsmith pointed to the camera lenses pointing toward them from every recess of the lobby.

The line began to move more quickly, and Alderdice was forgotten as they entered a large room. The net's voice commanded them to remove their clothing.

"All personal effects will be placed in the baskets to your right," the voice said. "They will be returned to you when you go back to civilian life."

Which, of course, would never happen. After you spent a few years in lunar gravity, you couldn't live on Earth. Most people signed up for another hitch, resigned to spending the rest of their lives on the moon; the few who chose to come home invariably died young. Of course, bone disease was quite common on the moon, but at least you didn't have to worry quite so much about heart failure.

There were three booths at the end of the room, and people were being ordered to step into them two at a time. Johnsmith wondered idly if he would go into one with Alderdice, or with the hawkfaced woman.

It turned out to be the woman, who actually looked pretty good naked.

"Burst, Felicia," the voice said as they entered the cubicle. "Accused of treason against the Conglomerated United Nations of Earth, how do you plead?"

"Not guilty," Felicia Burst said.

Disinfectant sprayed over her, and as she choked the voice announced: "Your plea has been considered, but the evidence weighs against you. According to Conglomerated United Nations of Earth Criminal Court Resolution 1331-D, you are guilty as charged of crimes against all the nations of Earth."

Tears were streaming down Felicia's thin cheeks, but not as a result of fear. The spray and her rage combined as she shrieked. "Down with the Conglom! Up with the people!"

Her revolutionary cries were drowned out by huge whirling buffers, that both scrubbed her and pushed her along to the next step in Triple-S processing.

"Biberkopf, Johnsmith," the voice said as soon as she was out of sight, "you are accused of the crime of unemployment. How do you plead?"

"No contest," Johnsmith said, hearing Felicia shouting angrily in the distance.

"Would you care to elaborate?" the voice asked in its cultured, yet forceful, British accent.

Johnsmith thought it over. "No, I guess not," he said after a few seconds. "I guess I'll just change my plea to guilty and save my breath."