Underkill, page 5
He told the doctor that he was becoming forgetful in his old age—which was not entirely a lie—and that it would be a good idea if he taped the doctor’s instructions to him in full instead of making a few notes. Earlier that same day the block psychologist. Doctor Hawkins, had been killed while trying to cool a family fight when the relatives had ganged up on him for interfering. Hesketh did not know whether the Doc agreed that it was a good idea or was just too tired and angry to argue.
“Very well, old man,” said the doctor, “here is another terminal tape. But it so happens that I have a job for you which requires a tape, both for your own briefing and, very probably, for the use of the patient. He is a would-be jumper, an old man. From the street it looks as if his hair is white, they tell me. He climbed through a break in the anti-suicide netting and is sitting with his legs over the parapet. He has been sitting there for over two hours, in the wind and cold, so maybe he hasn’t quite made up his mind yet.
“It should have been Hawkins’s job,” the doctor went on. “But I’m too busy right now to give him more than a few minutes, and that would make me sound too impatient with him. You have time to spare, and you’ve a lot of common sense when you’re not daydreaming to taped music. Anyway, talk to him but don’t take any risks trying to restrain him if he tries to jump. If he doesn’t really want to jump, try to get him down as soon as you can. Pneumonia at that age is slower than hitting the pavement, but just as lethal.”
“I understand, Doctor,” said Hesketh.
“Right, old man. But be careful about showing him the terminal tape. Sometimes seeing one brings a person to his senses, makes him realise that he is about to end his life and shocks him into sanity. On the other hand, the realisation that his last words are going into a tape instead of to the family circle in person makes him feel even more like ending it all.”
Hesketh did not have to use the tape while talking to the would-be jumper, so that the next conversation was his report to Doc Menzies. From the quality of the recording—the difference in volume between the two voices and the faint scratching sounds—it seemed likely that the recorder was in Hesketh’s breast pocket and the doctor was unaware that the conversation was being taped.
“His name is Tully, aged sixty-two, widowed,” said Hesketh. “You were right, Doctor, he didn’t really want to jump, but he said that he was always hungry and lonely and he has stomach pains which keep him from sleeping. Mostly he wants to talk to somebody his own age who isn’t too busy to listen and talk back. We’ve arranged to meet a few times a week at his box to talk or just complain about things, because he can’t walk very well. He said climbing to the roof today nearly killed him. He seems to have a sense of humour. I mean, his suicide attempt nearly killed him.
“He didn’t want to bother you with his stomach trouble,” Hesketh went on, “because you were too busy and probably couldn’t help him anyway. All his life he’s been a hypochondriac and is proud of the fact that none of the doctors he’s seen have ever been able to help him. But he’s coming down to see you tomorrow.”
“You must have given me a glowing testimonial,” said the doctor. “But I’m beginning to recognise that look in your eye, old man. There are complications?”
“Well,” said Hesketh, clearing his throat nervously, “there could be. That was why I was wondering if you, too, could be baffled by his condition. He’s so proud of the imaginary symptoms which baffled the earlier medics, and he gets enjoyment out of criticising their incompetence. I think it would be an unkindness if he was to meet a doctor who did know what was wrong with him and told him so. Because this time, well, he seems to have exactly the same symptoms as Mr Withers, the patient I take the extra neomorph to every day.”
There was a long pause, then Doc Menzies said caustically, “Old man, Mr Withers had an inoperable stomach cancer when he first came to me, and no doubt he has discussed his symptoms in detail while you were delivering his medication. You could be right about Mr Tully, and I’m not so proud that I’d find it necessary to change the low opinion he has of us doctors by telling him the worst. But old man, don’t you think patient Tully should be given the benefit of a second medical opinion, mine…?”
On the next occasion that Hesketh recorded a briefing he had been given an important job indeed. On the tape, Doc Menzies sounded tired and angry and harassed.
“…Keeler, the day superintendent, went off duty two hours ago and left the building, apparently to attend a meeting of the followers of John. Nobody knows for sure where the meeting is being held and, after lights-out, they refuse to go looking. There are lots of young people who could stand in for Holden here, except for one thing, they don’t read very well if at all. Holden insists that the ability to read the temperature and power loading figures is essential, and until we can get another technician here—”
“Doctor,” said a new voice. “I feel quite comfortable now. I can hold out until a replacement arrives. All I have to do is watch the displays. No physical effort is required.”
“Be quiet, Mr Holden,” said the doctor, “that is the neomorph talking. Mr Hesketh will keep an eye on things until the replacement gets here, which should be in about three hours. As a Low-Midder, technician grade, you rate hospital treatment and an ambulance, and that is exactly what you and your stupid perforating appendix are going to get. You have about fifteen minutes before it arrives, which is time enough to tell Mr Hesketh what to watch for, and what to do in case of an emergency.”
“No emergencies will arise,” said Holden. “He simply has to…”
“Listen carefully, old man,” said Doc Menzies. “Now, and as often as you think it necessary to play back that tape …”
Unlike the blocks which had been built before the Power-down and had subsequently been modified to the edicts limiting power consumption and living space, this building had been designed and constructed from the very beginning to furnish the tenants of its four thousand-plus rooms with the finest possible accommodation available to the Low-Midder grade worker. It was a beautifully functional structure, human-powered throughout, and gave its dwellers the feeling that their living boxes were fractionally larger than everyone else on a similar social level, the air which circulated sluggishly along the corridors that little bit fresher, and the anti-fire and other safety devices were marginally safer.
The building was completely safe, according to Holden, but if anything was going to go wrong it would most likely happen during the next three or four hours.
It was then that the power demand peaked to maximum as the tenants returned home from work. The building’s twenty elevators were constantly in use carrying capacity loads. All of the lighting was in use while the people jostled their way along the corridors to their boxes, warmed their food issue or made a hot drink, but not both, and indulged briefly in socialising before lights-out. During these activities they used vast quantities of air and produced a very huge amount of body heat.
The building’s designers had made cunning use of the body heat produced in the complex of living units to evolve a forced draught system which aided the circulation of air drawn from ground level and the third floor intakes. Air drawn from street level, containing as it did the dust and effluvia of the city, was piped only to the sub-levels which contained the waste disposal and power rooms—sections where riot gas would have smelled fresh and clean by comparison. Self-driven fans boosted the third floor intake to the upper levels where the old areas of dead air were serviced by fans attached to static bikes. Power walkers had a direct drive link-up to the elevator housings, and sometimes a cable would snap.
As a type the power walkers were very strong and often unstable people who insisted that if they had to work in the frightful conditions of the power rooms, they should at least work in safety. A riot of power walkers was violent beyond belief, which was something Holden did not have to tell any city dweller. But the neomorph was beginning to make his mind wander from the subject at times.
While Menzies swore luridly about the non-arrival of the ambulance and the minor police action down the street which had forced it to detour, Holden rallied his powers of concentration. He said that there was a small and continuous drain on the power room to run the block’s sensors which had their nerve centre in the superintendent’s office. In very simple language he explained the purpose and functioning of the banks of controls and indicator lights which filled the walls of the rooms around them.
“…There are twenty elevators with three indicator lights to each one,” Holden went on. “Most of the lights show green, the rest yellow. This means they are working normally or in a condition of non-critical overload. Everybody overloads the elevators this time of night. Red means a malfunction, the elevator has stopped itself automatically and is waiting for somebody, probably me, to fix it. In case of a general power failure, some of the elevators are fitted with an internal gear-down winch which enable it to be raised and lowered very slowly by a reduced number of occupants. When this facility is in use there is an additional blue light which cancels out the red malfunction signal.
“The fire prevention shutter tell-tales are here,” he continued. “The shutters are tripped automatically by an abnormal rise in temperature. They are designed to seal off a large or small section of floor, corridor or rooms, disposal chutes and stairwells, so that in the case of fire the area concerned will quickly be starved of oxygen. When areas have to be evacuated and settled for periodic delousing, the shutters can be controlled from in here.
“On the other side, there, are the power demand indicators,” he went on. “We can’t possibly put a sensor in every room, there is too much wiring in this place as it is, so we take the total requirement for the whole floor. If this exceeds the danger level we black out that level for a few minutes, then switch on again. Usually, this has a salutary effect on the greedy ones, although it is a bit unfair to the careful users, I’m afraid.
“This panel you don’t have to worry about,” the superintendent went on, “since it is concerned only with the waste reclamation and separation services. The men responsible for separating the toxic and re-usable wastes don’t come on duty until…It isn’t hurting me, Doctor, but my gut feels as if it is on fire…”
“I know,” said Doc Menzies. “Where the hell is that ambulance…?”
Chapter Five Gunshot Wounds
“Mr Holden was taken sick and went to hospital two hours ago,” said Hesketh.
His voice sounded nervous and the words were muffled and accompanied by the rustling sounds caused by the mike rubbing against the inside of his pocket. He went on, “Doc Menzies went with Mr Holden and I don’t know when he’ll be back. Has something happened to your face? Do you need medical attention?”
“The bandage hides my face, old man,” said a new voice, speaking from the other side of the room judging by the drop in volume. “A mask would have aroused suspicion, but in these violent times bandages are an all too common sight. I don’t need your doctor so just sit still and keep your mouth shut. I’m going to be very busy for a few minutes.”
“What…what are you doing to the air intake shutters?” said Hesketh sharply. “Mr Holden said they were only to be closed in case of fire or section delousing.”
“I know,” said the stranger, “but you could say that I am engaged in the destruction of vermin…Sit down, old man!”
“But…but they aren’t vermin,” Hesketh protested. “They’re people like you and me and they’ll suffocate if—”
“Among themselves, bugs probably consider each other as people like you. But not like me. I have learned to take a more objective view, of people and vermin.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Hesketh. There was a note of desperation in his voice.
“You aren’t supposed to,” said the other. “Just let’s say that it is necessary, that future generations will admire our daring, our self-discipline and our strength of character which enables us to be ruthless so that a greater good would come. If they realised that only a handful of us were responsible for decimating this block and that we can do it anytime, anywhere. Do you, old man, realise the planning, the teamwork, the split-second timing that went into this operation?”
“No,” said Hesketh.
Some inner compulsion seemed to be driving the man to speak. His voice was rising and beginning to throb with something like religious zeal as he went on, “Do you know that all day the three of us have been wedging shut the doors which open on to the emergency fire stairs? Twenty sets of stairs, over forty doors to each set, a little wedge under every door. Nobody disturbed us because those stairs are steep and dangerous and, unless an emergency occurs, unlighted. Tonight, during the emergency, the stair lighting will not come on.
“But that won’t be for another ten minutes or so,” he went on proudly. “Right now, with the fresh air supply cut off, it must be getting very hard to breathe in the living boxes. People are used to small inconveniences like stale air and interruptions in room lighting, so they won’t be too worried at first. In five minutes’ time they should be really uncomfortable and frightened, especially when they go outside and find the air in the corridors and that coining from the air intake is much worse than the stuff in their rooms. They will begin to gather around the elevators then intending to come down here to complain. They will wait patiently because one always has to wait patiently for elevators, and while they wait they will use. up more of the remaining oxygen. When I cut all the lighting circuits and simultaneously trigger the fire alarms in every corridor, the result will be general panic, much running about and fighting in the darkness and, of course, rapid asphyxiation and death.
“The power walkers represent a somewhat different problem,” he went on in a quieter, more thoughtful voice, “in that they are physically very strong and are close to the street level exits. They burn up oxygen very fast and the effects of the air cut-off should be noticeable almost at once. But the air down there, is so foul with body odour that the staleness will go unnoticed until it is too late to organise an orderly evacuation. My colleagues have seeded the exit chambers with riot gas, so that the few who manage to get that far will—”
“Riot gas is forbidden indoors,” said Hesketh dully. “Unless it is free to disperse quickly the effect is lethal.”
“Don’t be stupid, old man,” the other said impatiently, “we aren’t bound by City Security law. We have to take out all the power walkers and their technical supervision, and we have to keep the Lower-Middle maintenance men on the first and second floors, and who might be able to figure out a way of mounting a rescue operation to the upper levels, from taking any action. With a little power they could reopen the air intakes, for instance, and light key corridor intersections. They must have no power at all until the police arrive with gas-masks and portable fans to disperse the gas and stale air, clear the power rooms of the cadavers and put a new set of walkers to work.
“And don’t look so shocked, old man,” he went on. “Quite a few will survive. The wedges we put in the fire-escape doors will not hold if they keep their heads and work together to force them. They’ll open suddenly, of course, and a lot of people will fall down the stairs in the darkness and be killed or seriously injured. Some of them might fall all the way down because those stairs are dangerous even when the lights are on and people are not in such a panic. Others might fall only on to the next landing and collect there, making it impossible to open that particular door. Maybe they will all tumble to the bottom and plug the street level exits. In any event, the people who escape by the fire stairs will be very lucky indeed.
“On the whole I think the best bet,” the voice went on thoughtfully, “at least for those people who have boxes on the outer faces of the block, is to stay put. There are anti-suicide grills fitted inside the windows and the glass is supposed to be unbreakable, but if the occupants use their brains and some of the furniture supports they might be able to knock a hole in the glass and let in enough fresh air to enable them to stay alive. The danger then would be from the people out in the corridors who might hear them breaking the glass, and who would realise that fresh air was available and crowd into those rooms. If enough of them did that the window would soon be jammed solid and no air would get in at all. On second thoughts breaking a window and staying put could be every bit as risky as trying for the fire stairs.”
There was the sound of a short, harsh laugh, then the voice went on, “If any of them figure out a way of staying alive until morning, when daylight lets the rescue squads see what they’re doing, good luck to them.”
“If…if you weren’t doing this,” said Hesketh in a surprisingly angry tone, “they would all be alive in the morning.”
“Don’t be tiresome, old man,” the other replied. “Next thing you’ll be asking what did any of them ever do to deserve this? The answer is nothing. Individually we have nothing against them. We’ll be very glad if a few are able to survive. But for the ultimate good they, as a group, have to die. It is part of a greater plan and it is necessary. We don’t enjoy doing it, old man, but it has to be done. It will have to be done again and again until our object is achieved, no matter how distressing we as individuals find the work.”
“Hypocrite,” said Hesketh.
“I carry this gun,” said the other man, “because I was expecting trouble from Holden. Holden isn’t here and I do not expect trouble from you. At the same time I can deal with you if you give me any more of your lip. You are only a statistic to me, old man. A stupid, maudlin statistic who remembers the good old Pre Power-down days, and who unwittingly contributed to the mess we are in now because you couldn’t see where we were heading—”
