Mary KK came toward them from the escalators, holding a pack of coveralls with a bar of soap on top of it. She smiled and said, “Hi,” and to Chip, “Where were you?”
“He was in the lounge,” Bob said.
“In the middle of the night?” Mary said.
Chip nodded and Bob said, “Yes,” and they went on to the escalators, Bob keeping his hand lightly on Chip’s arm.
They rode down.
“I know you think your mind is open already,” Chip said, “but will you try to open it even more, to listen and think for a few minutes as if I’m just as healthy as I say I am?”
“All right, Li, I will,” Bob said.
“Bob,” Chip said, “we’re not free. None of us is. Not one member of the Family.”
“How can I listen as if you’re healthy,” Bob said, “when you say something like that? Of course we’re free. We’re free of war and want and hunger, free of crime, violence, aggressiveness, sel—”
“Yes, yes, we’re free of things,” Chip said, “but we’re not free to do things. Don’t you see that, Bob? Being ‘free of really has nothing to do with being free at all.”
Bob frowned. “Being free to do what?” he said.
They stepped off the escalator and started around toward the next one. “To choose our own classifications,” Chip said, “to have children when we want, to go where we want and do what we want, to refuse treatments if we want . . .”
Bob said nothing.
They stepped onto the next escalator. “Treatments really do dull us, Bob,” Chip said. “I know that from my own experience. There are things in them that ‘make us humble, make us good’—like in the rhyme, you know? I’ve been undertreated for half a year now”—the second chime sounded—“and I’m more awake and alive than I’ve ever been. I think more clearly and feel more deeply. I fuck four or five times a week, would you believe that?”
“No,” Bob said, looking at his telecomp riding on the handrail.
“It’s true,” Chip said. “You’re more sure than ever that I’m sick now, aren’t you. Love of Family, I’m not. There are others like me, thousands, maybe millions. There are islands all over the world, there may be cities on the mainland too”—they were walking around to the next escalator—“where people live in true freedom. I’ve got a list of the islands right here in my pocket. They’re not on maps because Uni doesn’t want us to know about them, because they’re defended against the Family and the people there won’t submit to being treated. Now, you want to help me, don’t you? To really help me?”
They stepped onto the next escalator. Bob looked grievingly at him. “Christ and Wei,” he said, “can you doubt it, brother?”
“All right, then,” Chip said, “this is what I’d like you to do for me: when we get to the treatment room tell Uni that I’m okay, that I fell asleep in the lounge the way I told you. Don’t input anything about my not touching scanners or the way I made up the toothache. Let me get just the treatment I would have got yesterday, all right?”
“And that would be helping you?” Bob said.
“Yes, it would,” Chip said. “I know you don’t think so, but I ask you as my brother and my friend to—to respect what I think and feel. I’ll get away to one of these islands somehow and I won’t harm the Family in any way. What the Family has given me, I’ve given back to it in the work I’ve done, and I didn’t ask for it in the first place, and I had no choice about accepting it.”
They walked around to the next escalator.
“All right,” Bob said when they were riding down, “I listened to you, Li; now you listen to me.” His hand above Chip’s elbow tightened slightly. “You’re very, very sick,” he said, “and it’s entirely my fault and I feel miserable about it. There are no islands that aren’t on maps; and treatments don’t dull us; and if we had the kind of ‘freedom’ you’re thinking about we’d have disorder and overpopulation and want and crime and war. Yes, I’m going to help you, brother. I’m going to tell Uni everything, and you’ll be cured and you’ll thank me.
They walked around to the next escalator and stepped onto it. Third floor—Medicenter, the sign at the bottom said. A red-cross-coveralled member riding toward them on the up escalator smiled and said, “Good morning, Bob.”
Bob nodded to him.
Chip said, “I don’t want to be cured.”
“That’s proof that you need to be,” Bob said. “Relax and trust me, Li. No, why the hate should you? Trust Uni, then; will you do that? Trust the members who programmed Uni.”
After a moment Chip said, “All right, I will.”
“I feel awful,” Bob said, and Chip turned to him and struck away his hand. Bob looked at him, startled, and Chip put both hands at Bob’s back and swept him forward. Turning with the movement, he grasped the handrail—hearing Bob tumble, his telecomp clatter—and climbed out onto the up-moving central incline. It wasn’t moving once he was on it; he crept sideways, clinging with fingers and knees to metal ridges; crept sideways to the up-escalator handrail, caught it, and flung himself over and down into the sharp-staired trench of humming metal. He got quickly to his feet—“Stop him!” Bob shouted below—and ran up the upgoing steps taking two in each stride. The red-crossed member at the top, off the escalator, turned. “What are you—” and Chip took him by the shoulders—elderly wide-eyed member—and swung him aside and pushed him away.
He ran down the hallway. “Stop him!” someone shouted, and other members: “Catch that member!” “He’s sick; stop him!”
Ahead was the dining hall, members on line turning to look. He shouted, “Stop that member!” running at them and pointing; “Stop him!” and ran past them. “Sick member in there!” he said, pushing past the ones at the doorway, past the scanner. “Needs help in there! Quickly!”
In the dining hall he looked, and ran to the side, through a swing-door to the behind-the-dispensers section. He slowed, walked quickly, trying to still his breathing, past members loading stacks of cakes between vertical tracks, members looking down at him while dumping tea powder into steel drums. A cart filled with boxes marked Napkins; he took the handle of it, swung it around, and pushed it before him, past two members standing eating, two more gathering cakes from a broken carton.
Ahead was a door marked Exit, the door to one of the corner stairways. He pushed the cart toward it, hearing raised voices behind him. He rammed the cart against the door, butted it open, and went with the cart out onto the landing; closed the door and brought the cart handle back against it. He backed down two steps and pulled the cart sideways to him, wedged it tight between the door and the stair-rail post with one black wheel turning in air.
He hurried down the stairs.
He had to get out, out of the building and onto the walkways and plazas. He would walk to the museum—it wouldn’t be open yet—and hide in the storeroom or behind the hot-water tank until tomorrow night, when Lilac and the others would be there. He should have grabbed some cakes just now. Why hadn’t he thought of it? Hate!
He left the stairway at the ground floor and walked quickly along the hallway, nodded at an approaching member. She looked at his legs and bit her lip worriedly. He looked down and stopped. His coveralls were torn at the knees and his right knee was bruised, with blood in small beads on the surface.
“Can I do anything?” the member asked.
“I’m on my way to the medicenter now,” he said. “Thanks, sister.” He went on. There was nothing he could do about it; he would have to take his chances. When he got outside, away from the building, he would tie a tissue around the knee and fix the coveralls as best he could. The knee began to sting, now that he knew about it. He walked faster.
He turned into the back of the lobby and paused, looked at the escalators planing down on either side of him and, up ahead, the four glass scanner-posted doors with the sunny walkway beyond them. Members were talking and going out, a few coming in. Everything looked ordinary; the murmur of voices was low, unala
rmed.
He started toward the doors, walking normally, looking straight ahead. He would do his scanner trick—the knee would be an excuse for the stumbling if anyone noticed—and once he was out on— The music stopped, and “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice loudspeakered, “would everyone please stay exactly where he is for a moment? Would everyone please stop moving?”
He stopped, in the middle of the lobby.
Everyone stopped, looked around questioningly and waited. Only the members on the escalators kept moving, and then they stopped too and looked down at their feet. One member walked down steps. “Don’t move!” several members called to her, and she stopped and blushed.
He stood motionless, looking at the huge stained-glass faces above the doors: bearded Christ and Marx, hairless Wood, smiling slit-eyed Wei. Something slipped down his shin: a drop of blood.
“Brothers, sisters,” the woman’s voice said, “an emergency has arisen. There’s a member in the building who’s sick, very sick. He’s acted aggressively and run away from his adviser” —members drew breath—“and he needs every one of us to help find him and get him to the treatment room as quickly as possible.”
“Yes!” a member behind Chip said, and another said, “What do we do?”
“He’s believed to be somewhere below the fourth floor,” the woman said; “a twenty-seven-year-old—” A second voice spoke to her, a man’s voice, quick and unintelligible. A member about to step on the nearest escalator was looking at Chip’s knees. Chip looked at the picture of Wood. “He’ll probably try to leave the building,” the woman said, “so the two members nearest each exit will move to it and block it, please. No one else move; only the two members nearest each exit.”
The members near the doors looked at one another, and two moved to each door and put themselves uneasily side by side in line with the scanners. “It’s awful!” someone said. The member who had been looking at Chip’s knees was looking now at his face. Chip looked back at him, a man of forty or so; he looked away.
“The member we’re looking for,” a man’s voice on the speaker said, “is a twenty-seven-year-old male, nameber Li RM35M4419. That’s Li, RM, 35M, 4419. First we’ll check among ourselves and then we’ll search the floors we’re on. Just a minute, just a minute, please. UniComp says the member is the only Li RM in the building, so we can forget the rest of his nameber. All we have to look for is Li RM. Li RM. Look at the bracelets of the members around you. We’re looking for Li RM. Be sure that every member within your sight is checked by at least one other member. Members who are in their rooms will come out now into the hallways. Li RM. We’re looking for Li RM.”
Chip turned to a member near him, took his hand and looked at his bracelet. “Let me see yours,” the member said. Chip raised his wrist and turned away, went toward another member. “I didn’t see it,” the member said. Chip took the other member’s hand. His arm was touched by the first member, saying, “Brother, I didn’t see.”
He ran for the doors. He was caught and arm-pulled around —by the member who had been looking at him. He clenched his hand to a fist and hit the member in the face and he fell away.
Members screamed. “It’s him!” they cried. “There he is!” “Help him!” “Stop him!”
He ran to a door and fist-hit one of the members there. His arm was grabbed by the other, saying in his ear, “Brother, brother!” His other arm was caught by other members; he was clutched around the chest from behind.
“We’re looking for Li RM,” the man on the speaker said. “He may act aggressively when we find him but we mustn’t be afraid. He’s depending on us for our help and our understanding.
“Let go of me!” he cried, trying to pull himself free of the arms tightly holding him.
“Help him!” members cried. “Get him to the treatment room!” “Help him!”
“Leave me alone!” he cried. “I don’t want to be helped! Leave me alone, you brother-fighting haters!”
He was dragged up escalator steps by members panting and flinching, one of them with tears in his eyes. “Easy, easy,” they said, “we’re helping you. You’ll be all right, we’re helping you.” He kicked, and his legs were caught and held.
“I don’t want to be helped!” he cried. “I want to be left alone! I’m healthy! I’m healthy! I’m not sick!”
He was dragged past members who stood with hands over ears, with hands pressed to mouths below staring eyes.
“You’re sick,” he said to the member whose face he had hit. Blood was leaking from his nostrils, and his nose and cheek were swollen; Chip’s arm was locked under his. “You’re dulled and you’re drugged,” Chip said to him. “You’re dead. You’re a dead man. You’re dead!”
“Shh, we love you, we’re helping you,” the member said.
“Christ and Wei, let GO of me!”
He was dragged up more steps.
“He’s been found,” the man on the speaker said. “Li RM has been found, members. He’s being brought to the medicenter. Let me say that again: Li RM has been found, and is being brought to the medicenter. The emergency is over, brothers and sisters, and you can go on now with what you were doing. Thank you; thank you for your help and cooperation. Thank you on behalf of the Family, thank you on behalf of Li RM.”
He was dragged along the medicenter hallway.
Music started in mid-melody.
“You’re all dead,” he said. “The whole Family’s dead. Uni’s alive, only Uni. But there are islands where people are living! Look at the map! Look at the map in the Pre-U Museum!”
He was dragged into the treatment room. Bob was there, pale and sweating, with a bleeding cut over his eyebrow; he was jabbing at the keys of his telecomp, held for him by a girl in a blue smock.
“Bob,” he said, “Bob, do me a favor, will you? Look at the map in the Pre-U Museum. Look at the map from 1951.”
He was dragged to a blue-lighted unit. He grabbed the edge of the opening, but his thumb was pried up and his hand forced in; his sleeve torn back and his arm shoved in all the way to the shoulder.
His cheek was soothed—by Bob, trembling. “You’ll be all right, Li,” he said. “Trust Uni.” Three lines of blood ran from the cut into his eyebrow hairs.
His bracelet was caught by the scanner, his arm touched by the infusion disc. He clamped his eyes shut. I will not be made dead! he thought. I will not be made dead! I’ll remember the islands, I’ll remember Lilac! I will not be made dead! I will not be made dead! He opened his eyes, and Bob smiled at him. A strip of skin-colored tape was over his eyebrow. “They said three o’clock and they meant three o’clock,” he said.
“What do you mean?” he asked. He was lying in a bed and Bob was sitting beside it.
“That’s when the doctors said you’d wake up,” Bob said.
“Three o’clock. And that’s what it is. Not 2:59, not 3:01, but three o’clock. These mems are so clever it scares me.”
“Where am I?” he asked.
“In Medicenter Main.”
And then he remembered—remembered the things he had thought and said, and worst of all, the things he had done. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “Oh, Marx. Oh, Christ and Wei.”
“Take it easy, Li,” Bob said, touching his hand.
“Bob,” he said, “oh, Christ and Wei, Bob, I—I pushed you down the—”
“Escalator,” Bob said. “You certainly did, brother. That was the most surprised moment in my life. I’m fine though.” He tapped the tape above his eyebrow. “All closed up and good as new, or will be in a day or two.”
“I hit a member! With my hand!”
“He’s fine too,” Bob said. “Two of those are from him.” He nodded across the bed, at red roses in a vase on a table. “And two from Mary KK, and two from the members in your section.”
He looked at the roses, sent to him by the members he had hit and deceived and betrayed, and tears came into his eyes and he began to tremble.
“Hey, easy there, come on,” Bob
said.
But Christ and Wei, he was thinking only of himself! “Bob, listen,” he said, turning to him, getting up on an elbow, back-handing at his eyes.
“Take it easy,” Bob said.
“Bob, there are others,” he said, “others who’re just as sick as I was! We’ve got to find them and help them!”
“We know.”
“There’s a member called ‘Lilac,’ Anna SG38P2823, and another one—”
“We know, we know,” Bob said. “They’ve already been helped. They’ve all been helped.”
“They have?”
Bob nodded. “You were questioned while you were out,” he said. “It’s Monday. Monday afternoon. They’ve already been found and helped—Anna SG; and the one you called ‘Snowflake,’ Anna PY; and Yin GU, ‘Sparrow.’”
“And King,” he said. “Jesus HL; he’s right here in this building; he’s—”
“No,” Bob said, shaking his head. “No, we were too late. That one—that one is dead.”
“He’s dead?”
Bob nodded. “He hung himself,” he said.
Chip stared at him.
“From his shower, with a strip of blanket,” Bob said.
“Oh, Christ and Wei,” Chip said, and lay back on the pillow. Sickness, sickness, sickness; and he had been part of it.
“The others are all fine though,” Bob said, patting his hand. “And you’ll be fine too. You’re going to a rehabilitation center, brother. You’re going to have yourself a week’s vacation. Maybe even more.”
“I feel so ashamed, Bob,” he said, “so fighting ashamed of myself . . .”
“Come on,” Bob said, “you wouldn’t feel ashamed if you’d slipped and broken an ankle, would you? It’s the same thing. I’m the one who should feel ashamed, if anyone should.”
“I lied to you!”
“I let myself be lied to,” Bob said. “Look, nobody’s really responsible for anything. You’ll see that soon.” He reached down, brought up a take-along kit, and opened it on his lap. “This is yours,” he said. “Tell me if I missed anything. Mouthpiece, clippers, snapshots, nameber books, picture of a horse, your—”