'I've been out of the country for a long time.'
'The world, you mean. You've been out of the world a long time.' He put his left hand on a chubby hip in a gesture that incidentally made his gun easier to get. He scratched the center of his chest.
I stood very still. 'That's right. I just got out of the Force.'
His jaw dropped. 'Hey, no bully-bull? You been out shootin' 'em up, out in space?'
'That's right.'
'Hey, all that crap about you not gettin' older, there's nothin' to that, is there?'
'Oh, it's true. I was born in 1975.'
'Well, god … damn. You're almost as old as I am.' He giggled. 'I thought that was just something the government made up.'
'Anyhow … you say I can't buy a laser–'
'Oh, no. No no no. I run a legal shop here.'
'What can I buy?'
'Oh, pistol, rifle, shotgun, knife, body armor … just no lasers or explosives or fully automatic weapons.'
'Let me see a pistol. The biggest you have.'
'Ah, I've got just the thing.' He motioned me over to a display case and opened the back, taking out a huge revolver.
'Four-ten-gauge six-shooter.' He cradled it in both hands. 'Dinosaur-stopper. Authentic Old West styling. Slugs or flechettes.'
'Flechettes?'
'Sure – uh, they're like a bunch of tiny darts. You shoot and they spread out in a pattern. Hard to miss that way.'
Sounded like my speed. 'Anyplace I can try it out?'
"Course, of course, we have a range in back. Let me get my assistant.' He rang a bell and a boy came out to watch the store while we went in back. He picked up a red-and-green box of shotgun shells on the way.
The range was in two sections, a little anteroom with a plastic transparent door and a long corridor on the other side of the door with a table at one end and targets at the other. Behind the targets was a sheet of metal that evidently deflected the bullets down into a pool of water.
He loaded the pistol and set it on the table. 'Please don't pick it up until the door's closed.' He went into the anteroom, closed the door, and picked up a microphone. 'OK. First time, you better hold on to it with both hands.' I did so, raising it up in line with the center target, a square of paper looking about the size of your thumbnail at arm's length. Doubted I'd even come near it. I pulled the trigger and it went back easily enough, but nothing happened.
'No, no,' he said over the microphone with a tinny giggle. 'Authentic Old West styling. You've got to pull the hammer back.'
Sure, just like in the flicks. I hauled the hammer back, lined it up again, and squeezed the trigger.
The noise was so loud it made my face sting. The gun bucked up and almost hit me on the forehead. But the three center targets were gone: just tiny tatters of paper drifting in the air.
'I'll take it.'
He sold me a hip holster, twenty shells, a chest-and-back shield, and a dagger in a boot sheath. I felt more heavily armed than I had in a fighting suit. But no waldos to help me cart it around.
The monorail had two guards for each car. I was beginning to feel that all my heavy artillery was superfluous, until I got off at the Hyattsville station.
Everyone who got off at Hyattsville was either heavily armed or had a bodyguard. The people loitering around the station were all armed. The police carried lasers.
I pushed a 'cab call' button, and the readout told me mine would be No. 3856. I asked a policeman and he told me to wait for it down on the street; it would cruise around the block twice.
During the five minutes I waited, I twice heard staccato arguments of gunfire, both of them rather far away. I was glad I'd bought the shield.
Eventually the cab came. It swerved to the curb when I waved at it, the door sliding open as it stopped. Looked as if it worked the same way as the autocabs I remembered. The door stayed open while it checked the thumbprint to verify that I was the one who had called, then slammed shut. It was thick steel. The view through the windows was dim and distorted; probably thick bulletproof plastic. Not quite the same as I remembered.
I had to leaf through a grimy book to find the code for the address of the bar in Hyattsville where I was supposed to meet the dealer. I punched it out and sat back to watch the city go by.
This part of town was mostly residential: grayed-brick warrens built around the middle of the last century competing for space with more modern modular setups and, occasionally, individual houses behind tall brick or concrete walls with jagged broken glass and barbed wire at the top. A few people seemed to be going somewhere, walking very quickly down the sidewalks, hands on weapons. Most of the people I saw were either sitting in doorways, smoking, or loitering around shopfronts in groups of no fewer than six. Everything was dirty and cluttered. The gutters were clotted with garbage, and shoals of waste paper drifted with the wind of the light traffic.
It was understandable, though; street-sweeping was probably a very high-risk profession.
The cab pulled up in front of Tom & Jerry's Bar and Grill and let me out after I paid 430K. I stepped to the sidewalk with my hand on the shotgun-pistol, but there was nobody around. I hustled into the bar.
It was surprisingly clean on the inside, dimly lit and furnished in fake leather and fake pine. I went to the bar and got some fake bourbon and, presumably, real water for 120K. The water cost 20K. A waitress came over with a tray.
'Pop one, brother-boy?' The tray had a rack of old-fashioned hypodermic needles.
'Not today, thanks.' If I was going to 'pop one,' I'd use an aerosol. The needles looked unsanitary and painful.
She set the dope down on the bar and eased onto the stool next to me. She sat with her chin cupped in her palm and stared at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. 'God. Tuesdays.'
I mumbled something.
'You wanna go in back fer a quickie?'
I looked at her with what I hoped was a neutral expression. She was wearing only a short skirt of some gossamer material, and it plunged in a shallow V in the front, exposing her hipbones and a few bleached pubic hairs. I wondered what could possibly keep it up. She wasn't bad looking, could have been anywhere from her late twenties to her early forties. No telling what they could do with cosmetic surgery and makeup nowadays, though. Maybe she was older than my mother.
'Thanks anyhow.'
'Not today?'
'That's right.'
'I can get you a nice boy, if–'
'No. No thanks.' What a world.
She pouted into the mirror, an expression that was probably older than Homo sapiens. 'You don't like me.'
'I like you fine. That's just not what I came here for.'
'Well … different funs for different ones.' She shrugged. 'Hey, Jerry. Get me a short beer.'
He brought it.
'Oh, damn, my purse is locked up. Mister, can you spare forty calories?' I had enough ration tickets to take care of a whole banquet. Tore off a fifty and gave it to the bartender.
'Jesus.' She stared. 'How'd you get a full book at the end of the month?'
I told her in as few words as possible who I was and how I managed to have so many calories. There had been two months' worth of books waiting in my mail, and I hadn't even used up the ones the Force had given me. She offered to buy a book from me for ten grand, but I didn't want to get involved in more than one illegal enterprise at a time.
Two men came in, one unarmed and the other with both a pistol and a riot gun. The bodyguard sat by the door and the other came over to me.
'Mr Mandella?'
'That's right.'
'Shall we take a booth?' He didn't offer his name.
He had a cup of coffee, and I sipped a mug of beer. 'I don't keep any written records, but I have an excellent memory. Tell me what sort of a job you're interested in, what your qualifications are, what salary you'll accept, and so on.'
I told him I'd prefer to wait for a job where I could use my physics – teaching or research, even engineer
ing. I wouldn't need a job for two or three months, since I planned to travel and spend money for a while. Wanted at least 20,000K monthly, but how much I'd accept would depend on the nature of the job.
He didn't say a word until I'd finished. 'Righty-oh. Now, I'm afraid … you'd have a hard time, getting a job in physics. Teaching is out; I can't supply jobs where the person is constantly exposed to the public. Research, well, your degree is almost a quarter of a century old. You'd have to go back to school, maybe five or six years.'
'Might do that,' I said.
'The one really marketable feature you have is your combat experience. I could probably place you in a supervisory job at a bodyguard agency for even more than twenty grand. You could make almost that much, being a bodyguard yourself.'
'Thanks, but I wouldn't want to take chances for somebody else's hide.'
'Righty-oh. Can't say I blame you.' He finished his coffee in a long slurp. 'Well, I've got to run, got a thousand things to do. I'll keep you in mind and talk to some people.'
'Good. I'll see you in a few months.'
'Righty-oh. Don't need to make an appointment. I come in here every day at eleven for coffee. Just show up.'
I finished my beer and called a cab to take me home. I wanted to walk around the city, but Mother was right. I'd get a bodyguard first.
9
I came home and the phone was blinking pale blue. Didn't know what to do so I punched 'Operator.'
A pretty young girl's head materialized in the cube. 'Jefferson operator,' she said. 'May I help you?'
'Yes … what does it mean when the cube is blinking blue?'
'Huh?'
'What does it mean when the phone–'
'Are you serious?' I was getting a little tired of this kind of thing.
'It's a long story. Honest, I don't know.'
'When it blinks blue you're supposed to call the operator.'
'OK, here I am.'
No, not me, the real operator. Punch nine. Then punch zero.'
I did that and an old harridan appeared. 'Ob-a-ray-duh.'
'This is William Mandella at 301-52-574-3975. I was supposed to call you.'
'Juzza segun.' She reached outside the field of view and typed something. 'You godda call from 605-19-556-2027.'
I scribbled it down on the pad by the phone. 'Where's that?'
'Juzza segun. South Dakota.'
'Thanks.' I didn't know anybody in South Dakota.
A pleasant-looking old woman answered the phone. 'Yes?'
'I had a call from this number … uh … I'm–'
'Oh. Sergeant Mandella! Just a second.'
I watched the diagonal bar of the holding pattern for a second, then fifty or so more. Then a head came into focus.
Marygay. 'William. I had a heck of a time finding you.'
'Darling, me too. What are you doing in South Dakota?'
'My parents live here, in a little commune. That's why it took me so long to get to the phone.' She held up two grimy hands. 'Digging potatoes.'
'But when I checked … the records said – the records in Tucson said your parents were both dead.'
'No, they're just dropouts – you know about dropouts? – new name, new life. I got the word through a cousin.'
'Well – well, how've you been? Like the country life?'
'That's one reason I've been wanting to get you. Willy, I'm bored. It's all very healthy and nice, but I want to do something dissipated and wicked. Naturally I thought of you.'
'I'm flattered. Pick you up at eight?'
She checked a clock above the phone. 'No, look, let's get a good night's sleep. Besides, I've got to get in the rest of the potatoes. Meet me at … the Ellis Island jetport at ten tomorrow morning. Mmm … Trans-World information desk.'
'OK. Make reservations for where?'
She shrugged. 'Pick a place.'
'London used to be pretty wicked.'
'Sounds good. First class?'
'What else? I'll get us a suite on one of the dirigibles.'
'Good. Decadent. How long shall I pack for?'
'We'll buy clothes along the way. Travel light. Just one stuffed wallet apiece.'
She giggled. 'Wonderful. Tomorrow at ten.'
'Fine – uh … Marygay, do you have a gun?'
'It's that bad?'
'Here around Washington it is.'
'Well, I'll get one. Dad has a couple over the fireplace. Guess they're left over from Tucson.'
'We'll hope we won't need them.'
'Willy, you know it'll just be for decoration. I couldn't even kill a Tauran.'
'Of course.' We just looked at each other for a second. 'Tomorrow at ten, then.'
'Right. Love you.'
'Uh…'
She giggled again and hung up.
That was just too many things to think about all at once.
I got us two round-the-world dirigible tickets; unlimited stops as long as you kept going east. It took me a little over two hours to get to Ellis by autocab and monorail. I was early, but so was Marygay.
She was talking to the girl at the desk and didn't see me coming. Her outfit was really arresting, a tight coverall of plastic in a pattern of interlocking hands; as your angle of sight changed, various strategic hands became transparent. She had a ruddy sun-glow all over her body. I don't know whether the feeling that rushed over me was simple honest lust or something more complicated. I hurried up behind her.
Whispering: 'What are we going to do for three hours?'
She turned and gave me a quick hug and thanked the girl at the desk, then grabbed my hand and pulled me along to a slidewalk.
'Um … where are we headed?'
'Don't ask questions, Sergeant. Just follow me.'
We stepped onto a roundabout and transferred to an eastbound slidewalk.
'Do you want something to eat or drink?' she asked innocently.
I tried to leer. 'Any alternatives?'
She laughed gaily. Several people stared. 'Just a second … here!' We jumped off. It was a corridor marked 'Roomettes.' She handed me a key.
That damned plastic coverall was held on by static electricity. Since the roomette was nothing but a big waterbed, I almost broke my neck the first time it shocked me.
I recovered.
We were lying on our stomachs, looking through the one-way glass wall at the people rushing around down on the concourse. Marygay passed me a joint.
'William, have you used that thing yet?'
'What thing?'
'That hawg-leg. The pistol.'
'Only shot it once, in the store where I bought it.'
'Do you really think you could point it at someone and blow him apart?'
I took a shallow puff and passed it back. 'Hadn't given it much thought, really. Until we talked last night.'
'Well?'
'I … I don't really know. The only time I've killed was on Aleph, under hypnotic compulsion. But I don't think it would … bother me, not that much, not if the person was trying to kill me in the first place. Why should it?'
'Life,' she said plaintively, 'life is…'
'Life is a bunch of cells walking around with a common purpose. If that common purpose is to get my ass–'
'Oh, William. You sound like old Cortez.'
'Cortez kept us alive.'
'Not many of us,' she snapped.
I rolled over and studied the ceiling tiles. She traced little designs on my chest, pushing the sweat around with her fingertip. 'I'm sorry, William. I guess we're both just trying to adjust.'
'That's OK. You're right, anyhow.'
We talked for a long time. The only urban center Marygay had been to since our publicity rounds (which were very sheltered) was Sioux Falls. She had gone with her parents and the commune bodyguard. It sounded like a scaled-down version of Washington: the same problems, but not as acute.
We ticked off the things that bothered us: violence, high cost of living, too many people everywhere. I'd have added homoli
fe, but Marygay said I just didn't appreciate the social dynamic that had led to it; it had been inevitable. The only thing she said she had against it was that it took so many of the prettiest men out of circulation.
And the main thing that was wrong was that everything seemed to have gotten just a little worse, or at best remained the same. You would have predicted that at least a few facets of everyday life would improve markedly in twenty-two years. Her father contended the War was behind it all: any person who showed a shred of talent was sucked up by UNEF; the very best fell to the Elite Conscription Act and wound up being cannon fodder.
It was hard not to agree with him. Wars in the past often accelerated social reform, provided technological benefits, even sparked artistic activity. This one, however, seemed tailor-made to provide none of these positive by-products. Such improvements as had been made on late-twentieth-century technology were – like tachyon bombs and warships two kilometers long – at best, interesting developments of things that only required the synergy of money and existing engineering techniques. Social reform? The world was technically under martial law. As for art, I'm not sure I know good from bad. But artists to some extent have to reflect the temper of the times. Paintings and sculpture were full of torture and dark brooding; movies seemed static and plotless; music was dominated by nostalgic revivals of earlier forms; architecture was mainly concerned with finding someplace to put everybody; literature was damn near incomprehensible. Most people seemed to spend most of their time trying to find ways to outwit the government, trying to scrounge a few extra K's or ration tickets without putting their lives in too much danger.
And in the past, people whose country was at war were constantly in contact with the war. The newspapers would be full of reports, veterans would return from the front; sometimes the front would move right into town, invaders marching down Main Street or bombs whistling through the night air – but always the sense of either working toward victory or at least delaying defeat. The enemy was a tangible thing, a propagandist's monster whom you could understand, whom you could hate.
But this war … the enemy was a curious organism only vaguely understood, more often the subject of cartoons than nightmares. The main effect of the war on the home front was economic, unemotional – more taxes but more jobs as well. After twenty-two years, only twenty-seven returned veterans; not enough to make a decent parade. The most important fact about the war to most people was that if it ended suddenly, Earth's economy would collapse.