Collected Short Fiction, page 355
“Will you take me with you?” he asked again. “If I stay here, Alaree will kill me.”
I scowled wretchedly for a moment, fighting a brief battle within myself, and then I looked up. There was only one thing to do—and I was sure, once I explained on Earth, that I would not suffer for it.
I took his hand. It was cold and limp; whatever he had just been through, it must have been hell. “Yes,” I said softly. “You can come with us.”
SO ALAREE joined the crew of the Aaron Burr. I told them about it just before blast-off, and they welcomed him aboard in traditional manner.
We gave the sad-eyed little alien a cabin near the cargo hold, and he established himself quite comfortably. He had no personal possessions—”It is not their custom.” he said—and promised that he’d keep the cabin clean.
He had brought with him a rough-edged, violet fruit that he said was his staple food. I turned it over to Kechnie for synthesizing, and we blasted off.
Alaree was right at home aboard the Burr. He spent much time with me—asking questions.
“Tell me about Earth,” Alaree would ask. The alien wanted desperately to know what sort of a world he was going to.
He would listen gravely while I explained. I told him of cities and wars and spaceships, and he nodded sagely, trying to fit the concepts into a mind only newly liberated from the gestalt. I knew he could comprehend only a fraction of what I was saying, but I enjoyed telling him. It made me feel as if Earth were coming closer that much faster, simply to talk about it.
And he went around begging everyone, “Tell me about Earth.” They enjoyed telling him, too—for a while.
Then it began to get a little tiresome. We had grown accustomed to Alaree’s presence on the ship, flopping around the corridors doing whatever menial job he had been assigned to. But—although I had told the men why I had brought him with us, and though we all pitied the poor lonely creature and admired his struggle to survive as an individual entity—we were slowly coming to the realization that Alaree was something of a nuisance aboard ship.
Especially later, when he began to change.
Willendorf noticed it first, twelve days out from Alaree’s planet. “Alaree’s been acting pretty strange these days, sir,” he told me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Haven’t you spotted it, sir? He’s been moping around like a lost soul—very quiet and withdrawn, like.”
“Is he eating well?”
Willendorf chuckled loudly. “I’ll say he is! Kechnie made up some synthetics based on the piece of fruit he brought with him, and he’s been stuffing himself wildly. He’s gained ten pounds since he came on ship. No, it’s not lack of food!”
“I guess not,” I said. “Keep an eye on him, will you? I feel responsible for his being here, and I want him to come through the voyage in good health.”
After that, I began to observe Alaree more closely myself, and I detected the change in his personality too. He was no longer the cheerful, childlike being who delighted in pouring out questions in endless profusion. Now he was moody, silent, always brooding, and hard to approach.
On the sixteenth day out—and by now I was worried seriously about him—a new manifestation appeared. I was in the hallway, heading from my cabin to the chartroom, when Alaree stepped out of an alcove. He reached up, grasped my uniform lapel, and, maintaining his silence, drew my head down and stared pleadingly into my eyes.
Too astonished to say anything, I returned his gaze for nearly thirty seconds. I peered into his transparent pupils, wondering what he was up to. After a good while had passed, he released me, and I saw something like a tear trickle down his cheek.
“What’s the trouble, Alaree?”
He shook his head mournfully and shuffled away.
I got reports from the crewmen that day and next that he had been doing this regularly for the past eighteen hours—waylaying crewmen, staring long and deep at them as if trying to express some unspeakable sadness, and walking away. He had approached almost everyone on the ship.
I wondered now how wise it had been to allow an extraterrestrial, no matter how friendly, to enter the ship. There was no telling what this latest action meant.
I started to form a theory. I suspected what he was aiming at, and the realization chilled me. But once I reached my conclusion, there was nothing I could do but wait for confirmation.
On the nineteenth day, Alaree again met me in the corridor. This time our encounter was more brief. He plucked me by the sleeve, shook his head sadly and shrugged his shoulders, and walked away.
That night, he took to his cabin, and by morning he was dead. He had apparently died peacefully in his sleep.
“I GUESS we’ll never understand him, poor fellow,” Willendorf said, after we had committed the body to space. “You think he had too much to eat, sir?”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t that. He was lonely, that’s all. He didn’t belong here, among us.”
“But you said he had broken away from that group-mind,” Willendorf objected.
I shook my head. “Not really. That group-mind arose out of some deep psychological and physiological needs of those people. You can’t just declare your independence and be able to exist as an individual from then on if you’re part of that group-entity. Alaree had grasped the concept intellectually, to some extent, but he wasn’t suited for life away from the corporate mind, no matter how much he wanted to be.”
“He couldn’t stand alone?”
“Not after his people had evolved that gestalt setup. He learned independence from us,” I said. “But he couldn’t live with us, really. He needed to be part of a whole. He found out his mistake after he came aboard and tried to remedy things.”
I saw Willendorf pale. “What do you mean, sir?”
“You know what I mean. When he came up to us and stared soulfully into our eyes. He was trying to form a new gestalt—out of us! Somehow he was trying to link us together, the way his people had been linked.”
“He couldn’t do it, though,” Willendorf said fervently.
“Of course not. Human beings don’t have whatever need it is that forced those people to merge. He found that out, after a while, when he failed to get anywhere with us.”
“He just couldn’t do it,” Willendorf repeated.
“No. And then he ran out of strength,” I said somberly, feeling the heavy weight of my guilt. “He was like an organ removed from a living body. It can exist for a little while by itself, but not indefinitely. He failed to find a new source of life—and he died.” I stared bitterly at my fingertips.
“What do we call it in my medical report?” asked Ship Surgeon Thomas, who had been silent up till then. “How can we explain what he died from?”
“Call it—malnutrition,” I said.
THE END
Decision Final
The Machine was running the city and everyone respected its orders. But the real question was:—Who was running the Machine?
THE NOTIFICATION came thudding out of the wall-slot that connected Grey Harkness’ one-room dormer with the giant computing machine which governed Appalachia City. Harkness grabbed the slip of paper eagerly, ripped off the seal of the computer, unfolded it, read.
Joy turned to desperation.
It said:
HARKNESS, GREY 432-j-1603—
Be advised that your petition for marriage permit, taken out jointly with Smithson Joanne 321-k-1872 is herewith denied on grounds of incompatibility, and any marriage between you and Smithson Joanne will be prohibited.
Numb, he let the official form slip to the floor. A confused mixture of emotions bubbled up in him—anger, rage, despair, above all hatred for the computing machine that had so coldly and so permanently barred him from the girl he loved.
There was no sense appealing the verdict. The Machine never reconsidered.
He flipped on the visiphone and punched Joanne Smithson’s key numbers. The numbers were routed through the vast circuits of the Machine; seconds later, Joanne’s face appeared on the screen. Her blonde hair was uncombed, her light-blue eyes red-rimmed with tears. Harkness stared at her for a minute, not knowing what to say.
Finally she spoke first. “Did you get the notification from the Machine?”
He nodded. “It just came. Flat no. Incompatibility, they said.”
“That’s what my paper said too. Incompatible.”
Harkness scowled. “It can’t be true! How can that machine know or not know who’s incompatible? Darling, I love you! What does a bunch of electronic circuits know about love?”
Joanne’s face looked set, resigned. She said, “The Machine is wiser than all of us, Grey. If it says we’re incompatible . . . I guess . . . it must be right. Even if we don’t believe so ourselves . . .”
Her voice trailed off faintly. Harkness shook his head; he couldn’t bring himself to share Joanne’s blind faith in the machine’s judgment. “There must be something we can do! The Machine can’t keep us apart!” Joanne looked very pale. “I . . . received a second notification this morning. It . . . it was a marriage license.”
“A what?”
“The Machine has decided to assign me a mate,” she went on, in a level, flat voice. “He’s Henry Kerston. The marriage is supposed to take place in four days. I have to go to the Brides’ Dormitory tonight and stay there until the wedding.”
Harkness felt what little was left of his world shatter and crash to pieces about him. “Kerston? No—it’s impossible. Stay right there, Joanne. I’ll be coming over to see you. We’ll figure this thing out.”
“Grey—”
But her tentative protest was cut off by the whirring of the arrival slot behind him. “The Machine’s got another message for me,” he said. “Maybe the whole thing’s been cancelled as an electronic error. Or”—his voice became dark—“Maybe I’ve been assigned a mate too.”
He opened the new message and read it aloud.
“HARKNESS, GREY 432-j-1603—
“Be advised that as of 0900 this morning you have been declared an enemy of the State and are to report immediately to your local Communication Center for interrogations. Any violation of this order will be met with punishment.” Joanne’s expression was one of fear and shock. She said, “Grey! What have you done?”
“Nothing—unless you call thinking violent thoughts about the Machine a criminal offense. There’s something funny about this, something rigged . . .”
“The Machine can’t be wrong, Grey.”
“No,” he said. “But maybe it can be mistaken.” He looked at his watch. It was 0910. He was going to have to move fast to avoid the police-robots.
TEN MINUTES later the copterbus let him off outside the vast residence-hall where Joanne lived.
He dashed into the lobby, punched out her number on the lobby screen and waited. Moments later her face appeared.
“Grey! Why have you come here?”
“I have to see you,” he said. “I’m coming up.”
She started to shake her head, then said with obvious reluctance, “Well—all right.”
She met him at the door when he stepped out of the lift tube on the 63rd floor. She was wearing a clinging synthoplast negligee which left little to the imagination. Harkness kissed her as he entered. It was something he had done a thousand times but now there was a reserve, an unwillingness in her response that troubled him.
Inside her tiny apartment he whirled to face her. “Joanne, I don’t know why the Machine has picked us to bring all this trouble to. But I mean to fight back.”
“Fight the Machine?” Conflict was evident on her pale face. “Grey, don’t be insane. The Machine protects us, it regulates our lives, it—”
“It keeps me from marrying you!” he snapped tightly. “Joanne, don’t you see that your blind loyalty to the Machine is going too far? Sure, the Machine’s a wonderful thing—the first impartial, incorrupt government man has ever known. But how do you know the Machine’s still impartial? Suppose Henry Kerston arranged this whole thing? He’s a Machine technician and I know he’s wildly jealous because you love me. It might not be hard for him to fix things so the Machine rejects our application, assigns you to him, and declares me a criminal!”
“I can’t believe that,” she said. But there was doubt in her voice. “Darling, I still feel the same way I always did about you and the idea of marrying Henry Kerston almost, sickens me. But if the Machine says so . . .”
Harkness pummelled his palm with his fist. “The Machine! The Machine! Can’t you think for yourself, Joanne? There’s still time. Let’s get away from Appalachia, away from America, even. There are places that aren’t ruled by computing machines. We could live there . . . together.”
“I’d never be happy, knowing I had run away.”
He shook his head bitterly. The Machine had ruled mankind 150 years; the idea of defying it was incomprehensible to her, it seemed. “Maybe the Machine’s right,” he said. “Maybe we are incompatible. Otherwise you’d drop everything and run with me.”
She smiled coldly. “The Machine is right, Grey. I still love you . . . but if the Machine says our marriage wouldn’t work out, I believe it. It takes a long-range view. We love each other now but how will it be in 30 years? The Machine knows best.”
He saw the futility of trying to argue with her—indeed, of doing anything. He was on the verge of reporting to the Communications Center and turning himself in when the room screen suddenly blared into life.
“Harkness Grey 432-j-i6o3! Are you in there?”
Harkness looked around wildly for a place to hide. But the screen went on, “You needn’t be silent, Harkness Grey. You have been traced. We know you are there. The building will be surrounded by pursuit-robots. Please surrender quietly, Harkness Grey. Do not cause a disturbance.”
“One last chance,” Harkness whispered to the girl. “Will you come with me? I’m going to try to escape.”
“Sorry, Grey. I believe the Machine knows what’s best. But . . . I still love you, anyway. I won’t forget you.”
“Thanks,” he said sarcastically. Suddenly angry, he turned, avoiding the kiss she offered him, and yanked open the apartment window.
“Grey! What are you going to do?”
“Escape,” he said.
Behind him, the blaring of the screen continued. “Harkness Grey! Do not remain silent! Avoid unnecessary disturbance in effecting your capture!”
“So long, Joanne,” he said, and climbed through the window.
HE STOOD FOR A MOMENT on the broad window-ledge, carefully not looking down. Then he began to climb. The building was heavily encrusted with chrome, in the contemporary architectural style. Harkness thought the chrome ornamentation was hideous but now he was grateful to whatever architect had built so many handholds into the building’s skin.
Minutes later he reached the roof and paused there, drenched with sweat. He knew the pursuit-robots were buzzing around the base of the building, perhaps even on their way up to Joanne’s apartment to apprehend him. Maybe they wouldn’t think of looking for him up here.
The roof was clear, a wide, flat expanse. Harkness glanced up to make sure no police copters hovered above.
It took nearly a minute to cross the surface of the roof. He arrived at the other side and peered down into the gulf that separated the building from its neighbor.
The street below was filled with gleaming metallic dots. At this distance they looked like angry beetles but they were the Machine’s pursuit-robots. Pretty soon, discovering him gone, they would come swarming up to the rooftops after him. But by that time he hoped to be—
Where?
He didn’t know. His only way out was to keep running. Seven or eight buildings spread out before him, their roofs roughly at the same level. If he could make it across the rooftops to the end of the block and down and, out of sight before the robots arrived—
He bunched, his thigh-muscles and leaped. There was a six-foot gap between Joanne’s building and its neighbor, and a two-foot drop. He made the jump easily, kneeling as he landed to absorb the shock. He had to keep going.
Ahead of him a skylight opened. A figure some four feet high, its skin a glowing bronze color, emerged and goggled at him.
“We order you to halt!” the pursuit-robot commanded. “Harkness Grey, you are under arrest!”
There wasn’t time to debate the situation. Harkness ran forward, straight at the robot, and bowled it over. Pursuit-robots in themselves weren’t very powerful; it was just when a group of them snared you that you were stuck. The robot fell, sputtering and growling, and Harkness kept running.
Five more of the robots appeared on the next roof and began advancing toward him.
He froze, not knowing which way to go. He was trapped!
The robots would not kill except under extreme provocation, which meant threat of destruction. He debated charging into their midst and trying to knock them off the roof but he saw he could never cope with five robots at once. They had him now.
The sound of a copter’s whirring rotors came from above. Surrounded?
No!
A ladder dangled. A voice shouted, “Come on, Harkness! Let’s go!”
The pursuit-robots were drawing near. Harkness looked up and could see no one in the copter’s cockpit. Shrugging, he grabbed the dangling ladder. He was drowning; someone had thrown him a straw.
He started to climb.
Halfway up the robots began firing their stunguns. One shot caught the heel of one foot and numbed it; desperately he pulled himself up into the copter and lay there, gasping in air.
The voice said, “Okay, Harkness. Away we go!”
He looked up. The copter was completely empty. It sprang up from its hovering position and moments later, the rooftops of Appalachia City were just blurs in the hazy distance.
After a few minutes Harkness rose and unsteadily made his way up fore to the copter’s cockpit. His left foot ached mercilessly; it would be three or four hours before the effects of the stray stunbeam wore off.
He entered the cockpit, dropped into the empty pilot’s chair and said, “What’s the game? Who’s running this copter anyway?”
