Paycheck. Part 20

Walsh pushed aside the safety-rail and jumped from the disc, down the three steps of the grapple and onto the ashes and cinders of the parking lot. In the gloom of early evening he could make out his wife's car; Betty sat watching the dashboard TV, oblivious of him and the silent struggle between the red-haired Naturalist and the gray-haired Purist.

'Beast,' the gray-haired man gasped, as he straightened up. 'Stinking animal!'

The red-haired man lay semi-conscious against the safety-rail. 'G.o.d d.a.m.n - lily!' he grunted.

The gray-haired man pressed the release, and the disc rose above Walsh and on its way. Walsh waved gratefully. 'Thanks,' he called up. 'I appreciate that.'

'Not at all,' the gray-haired man answered, cheerfully examining a broken tooth. His voice dwindled, as the disc gained alt.i.tude. 'Always glad to help out a fellow ... ' The final words came drifting to Walsh's ears. '... A fellow Purist.'

'I'm not!' Walsh shouted futilely. 'I'm not a Purist and I'm not a Naturalist! You hear me?'

n.o.body heard him.

'I'm not,' Walsh repeated monotonously, as he sat at the dinner table spooning up creamed corn, potatoes, and rib steak. 'I'm not a Purist and I'm not a Naturalist. Why do I have to be one or the other? Isn't there any place for a man who has his own own opinion?' opinion?'

'Eat your food, dear,' Betty murmured.

Through the thin walls of the bright little dining room came the echoing clink of other families eating, other conversations in progress. The tinny blare of TV sets. The purr of stoves and freezers and air conditioners and wall-heaters. Across from Walsh his brother-in-law Carl was gulping down a second plateful of steaming food. Beside him, Walsh's fifteen-year-old son Jimmy was scanning a paper-bound edition of Finnegans Wake Finnegans Wake he had bought in the downramp store that supplied the self-contained housing unit. he had bought in the downramp store that supplied the self-contained housing unit.

'Don't read at the table,' Walsh said angrily to his son.

Jimmy glanced up. 'Don't kid me. I know the unit rules; that one sure as h.e.l.l isn't listed. And anyhow, I have to get this read before I leave.'

'Where are you going tonight, dear?' Betty asked.

'Official party business,' Jimmy answered obliquely. 'I can't tell you any more than that.'

Walsh concentrated on his food and tried to brake the tirade of thoughts screaming through his mind. 'On the way home from work,' he said, 'there was a fight.'

Jimmy was interested. 'Who won?'

'The Purist.'

A glow of pride slowly covered the boy's face; he was a sergeant in the Purist Youth League. 'Dad, you ought to get moving. Sign up now and you'll be eligible to vote next Monday.'

'I'm going to vote.'

'Not unless you're a member of one of the two parties.'

It was true. Walsh gazed unhappily past his son, into the days that lay ahead. He saw himself involved in endless wretched situations like the one today; sometimes it would be Naturalists who attacked him, and other times (like last week) it would be enraged Purists.

'You know,' his brother-in-law said, 'you're helping the Purists by just sitting around here doing nothing.' He belched contentedly and pushed his empty plate away. 'You're what we we cla.s.s as unconsciously pro-Purist.' He glared at Jimmy. 'You little squirt! If you were legal age I'd take you out and whale the tar out of you.' cla.s.s as unconsciously pro-Purist.' He glared at Jimmy. 'You little squirt! If you were legal age I'd take you out and whale the tar out of you.'

'Please,' Betty sighed. 'No quarreling about politics at the table. Let's have peace and quiet, for a change. I'll certainly be glad when the election is over.'

Carl and Jimmy glared at each other and continued eating warily. 'You should eat in the kitchen-' Jimmy said to him. 'Under the stove. That's where you belong. Look at you - there's sweat all over you.' A nasty sneer interrupted his eating. 'When we get the Amendment pa.s.sed, you better get rid of that, if you don't want to get hauled off to jail.'

Carl flushed. 'You creeps won't get it pa.s.sed.' But his gruff voice lacked conviction. The Naturalists were scared; Purists had control of the Federal Council. If the election moved in their favor it was really possible the legislation to compel forced observation of the five-point Purist code might get on the books. 'n.o.body is going to remove my sweat glands,' Carl muttered. 'n.o.body is going to make me submit to breath-control and teeth-whitening and hair-restorer. It's part of life to get dirty and bald and fat and old.'

'Is it true?' Betty asked her husband. 'Are you really unconsciously pro-Purist?'

Don Walsh savagely speared a remnant of rib steak. 'Because I don't join either party I'm called unconsciously pro-Purist and unconsciously pro-Naturalist. I claim they balance. If I'm everybody's enemy then I'm n.o.body's enemy.' He added, 'Or friend.'

'You Naturalists have nothing to offer the future,' Jimmy said to Carl. 'What can you give the youth of the planet - like me? Caves and raw meat and a b.e.s.t.i.a.l existence. You're anti-civilization.'

'Slogans,' Carl retorted.

'You want to carry us back to a primitive existence, away from social integration.' Jimmy waved an excited skinny finger in his uncle's face. 'You're thalamically oriented!'

'I'll break your head,' Carl snarled, half out of his chair. 'You Purist squirts have no respect for your elders.'

Jimmy giggled shrilly. 'I'd like to see you try. It's five years in prison for striking a minor. Go ahead - hit me.'

Don Walsh got heavily to his feet and left the dining room.

'Where are you going?' Betty called peevishly after him. 'You're not through eating.'

'The future belongs to youth,' Jimmy was informing Carl. 'And the youth of the planet is firmly Purist. You don't have a chance; the Purist revolution is coming.'

Don Walsh left the apartment and wandered down the common corridor toward the ramp. Closed doors extended in rows on both sides of him. Noise and light and activity radiated around him, the close presence of families and domestic interaction. He pushed past a boy and girl making love in the dark shadows and reached the ramp. For a moment he halted, then abruptly he moved forward and descended to the lowest level of the unit.

The level was deserted and cool and slightly moist. Above him the sounds of people had faded to dull echoes against the concrete ceiling. Conscious of his sudden plunge into isolation and silence he advanced thoughtfully between the dark grocery and dry goods stores, past the beauty shop and the liquor store, past the laundry and medical supply store, past the dentist and physical doctor, to the ante-room of the unit a.n.a.lyst.

He could see the a.n.a.lyst within the inner chamber. It sat immobile and silent, in the dark shadows of evening. n.o.body was consulting it; the a.n.a.lyst was turned off. Walsh hesitated, then crossed the check-frame of the ante-room and knocked on the transparent inner door. The presence of his body closed relays and switches; abruptly the lights of the inner office winked on and the a.n.a.lyst itself sat up, smiled and half-rose to its feet.

'Don,' it called heartily. 'Come on in and sit down.'

He entered and wearily seated himself. 'I thought maybe I could talk to you, Charley,' he said.

'Sure, Don.' The robot leaned forward to see the clock on its wide mahogany desk. 'But, isn't it dinner time?'

'Yes,' Walsh admitted. 'I'm not hungry. Charley, you know what we were talking about last time ... you remember what I was saying. You remember what's been bothering me.'

'Sure, Don.' The robot settled back in its swivel chair, rested its almost-convincing elbows on the desk, and regarded its patient kindly. 'How's it been going, the last couple of days?'

'Not so good. Charley, I've go to do something. You can help me; you're not biased.' He appealed to the quasi-human face of metal and plastic. 'You can see this undistorted, Charley. How can I join one of the parties? How can I join one of the parties? All their slogans and propaganda, it seems so d.a.m.n - silly. How the h.e.l.l can I get excited about clean teeth and underarm odor? People kill each other over these trifles ... it doesn't make sense. There's going to be suicidal civil war, if that Amendment pa.s.ses, and I'm supposed to join one side or the other.' All their slogans and propaganda, it seems so d.a.m.n - silly. How the h.e.l.l can I get excited about clean teeth and underarm odor? People kill each other over these trifles ... it doesn't make sense. There's going to be suicidal civil war, if that Amendment pa.s.ses, and I'm supposed to join one side or the other.'

Charley nodded. 'I have the picture, Don.'

'Am I supposed to go out and knock some fellow over the head because he does or doesn't smell? Some man I never saw before? I won't do it. I refuse. Why can't they let me alone? Why can't I have my own opinions? Why do I have to get in on this - insanity?'

The a.n.a.lyst smiled tolerantly. 'That's a little harsh, Don. You're out of phase with your society, you know. So the cultural climate and mores seem a trifle unconvincing to you. But this is your society; you have to live in it. You can't withdraw.'

Walsh forced his hands to relax. 'Here's what I think. Any man who wants to smell should be allowed to smell. Any man who doesn't want to smell should go and get his glands removed. What's the matter with that?'

'Don, you're avoiding the issue.' The robot's voice was calm, dispa.s.sionate. 'What you're saying is that neither side is right. And that's foolish, isn't it? One side must be right.'

'Why?'

'Because the two sides exhaust the practical possibilities. Your position isn't really a position ... it's a sort of description. You see, Don, you have a psychological inability to come to grips with an issue. You don't want to commit yourself for fear you'll lose your freedom and individuality. You're sort of an intellectual virgin; you want to stay pure.'

Walsh reflected. 'I want,' he said, 'to keep my integrity.'

'You're not an isolated individual, Don. You're a part of society ... ideas don't exist in a vacuum.'

'I have a right to hold my own ideas.'

'No, Don,' the robot answered gently. 'They're not your ideas; you didn't create them. You can't turn them on and off when you feel like it. They operate through you ... they're conditionings deposited by your environment. What you believe is a reflection of certain social forces and pressures. In your case the two mutually exclusive social trends have produced a sort of stalemate. You're at war with yourself ... You can't decide which side to join because elements of both exist in you.' The robot nodded wisely. 'But you've got to make a decision. You've got to resolve this conflict and act. You can't remain a spectator ... you've got to be a partic.i.p.ant. n.o.body can be a spectator to life ... and this is life.'

'You mean there's no other world but this business about sweat and teeth and hair?'

'Logically, there are other societies. But this is the one you were born into. This is your society ... the only one you will ever have. You either live in it, or you don't live.'

Walsh got to his feet. 'In other words, I have to make the adjustment. Something has to give, and it's got to be me.'

'Afraid so, Don. It would be silly to expect everybody else to adjust to you, wouldn't it? Three and a half billion people would have to change just to please Don Walsh. You see, Don, you're not quite out of your infantile-selfish stage. You haven't quite got to the point of facing reality.' The robot smiled. 'But you will.'

Walsh started moodily from the office. 'I'll think it over.'

'It's for your own good, Don.'

At the door, Walsh turned to say something more. But the robot had clicked off; it was fading into darkness and silence, elbows still resting on the desk. The dimming overhead lights caught something he hadn't noticed before. The powercord that was the robot's umbilicus had a white plastic tag wired to it. In the semi-gloom he could make out the printed words.

PROPERTY OF THE FEDERAL COUNCIL.

FOR PUBLIC USE ONLY.

The robot, like everything else in the multi-family unit, was supplied by the controlling inst.i.tutions of society. The a.n.a.lyst was a creature of the state, a bureaucrat with a desk and job. Its function was to equate people like Don Walsh with the world as it was.

But if he didn't listen to the unit a.n.a.lyst, who was he supposed to listen to? Where else could he go?

Three days later the election took place. The glaring headline told him nothing he didn't already know; his office had buzzed with the news all day. He put the paper away in his coat pocket and didn't examine it until he got home.

PURISTS WIN BY LANDSLIDE.

HORNEY AMENDMENT CERTAIN TO Pa.s.s.

Walsh lay back wearily in his chair. In the kitchen Betty was briskly preparing dinner. The pleasant clink of dishes and the warm odor of cooking food drifted through the bright little apartment.

'The Purists won,' Walsh said, when Betty appeared with an armload of silver and cups. 'It's all over.'

'Jimmy will be happy,' Betty answered vaguely. 'I wonder if Carl will be home in time for dinner.' She calculated silently. 'Maybe I ought to run downramp for some more coffee.'

'Don't you understand?' Walsh demanded. 'It's happened! The Purists have complete power!'

'I understand,' Betty answered peevishly. 'You don't have to shout. Did you sign that pet.i.tion thing? That b.u.t.te Pet.i.tion the Naturalists have been circulating?'

'No.'

'Thank G.o.d. I didn't think so; you never sign anything anybody brings around.' She lingered at the kitchen door. 'I hope Carl has sense enough to do something. I never did like him sitting around guzzling beer and smelling like a pig in summer.'

The door of the apartment opened and Carl hurried in, flushed and scowling. 'Don't fix dinner for me, Betty. I'll be at an emergency meeting.' He glanced briefly at Walsh. 'Now are you satisfied? If you'd put your back to the wheel, maybe this wouldn't have happened.'

'How soon will they get the Amendment pa.s.sed?' Walsh asked.

Carl bellowed with nervous laughter. 'They've already pa.s.sed it.' He grabbed up an armload of papers from his desk and stuffed them in a waste-disposal slot. 'We've got informants at Purist headquarters. As soon as the new councilmen were sworn in they rammed the Amendment through. They want to catch us unawares.' He grinned starkly. 'But they won't.'

The door slammed and Carl's hurried footsteps diminished down the public hall.

'I've never seen him move so fast,' Betty remarked wonderingly.

Horror rose in Don Walsh as he listened to the rapid, lumbering footsteps of his brother-in-law. Outside the unit, Carl was climbing quickly into his surface car. The motor gunned, and Carl drove off. 'He's afraid,' Walsh said. 'He's in danger.'

'I guess he can take care of himself. He's pretty big.'

Walsh shakily lit a cigarette. 'Even your brother isn't that big. It doesn't seem possible they really mean this. Putting over an Amendment like this, forcing everybody to conform to their idea of what's right. But it's been in the cards for years ... This is the last step on a large road.'

'I wish they'd get it over with, once and for all,' Betty complained. 'Was it always this way? I don't remember always hearing about politics when I was a child.'

'They didn't call it politics, back in those days. The industrialists hammered away at the people to buy and consume. It centered around this hair-sweat-teeth purity; the city people got it and developed an ideology around it.'

Betty set the table and brought in the dishes of food. 'You mean the Purist political movement was deliberately started?'

'They didn't realize what a hold it was getting on them. They didn't know their children were growing up to take such things as underarm perspiration and white teeth and nice-looking hair as the most important things in the world. Things worth fighting and dying for. Things important enough to kill those who didn't agree.'

'The Naturalists were country people?'

'People who lived outside the cities and weren't conditioned by the stimuli.' Walsh shook his head irritably. 'Incredible, that one man will kill another over trivialities. All through history men murdering each other over verbal nonsense, meaningless slogans instilled in them by somebody else - who sits back and benefits.'

'It isn't meaningless if they believe in it.'

'It's meaningless to kill another man because he has halitosis! It's meaningless to beat up somebody because he hasn't had his sweat glands removed and artificial waste-excretion tubes installed. There's going to be senseless warfare; the Naturalists have weapons stored up at party headquarters. Men'll be just as dead as if they died for something real.'

'Time to eat, dear,' Betty said, indicating the table.

'I'm not hungry.'

'Stop sulking and eat. Or you'll have indigestion, and you know what that means.'

He knew what it meant, all right. It meant his life was in danger. One belch in the presence of a Purist and it was a life and death struggle. There was no room in the same world for men who belched and men who wouldn't tolerate men who belched. Something had to give ... and it had already given. The Amendment had been pa.s.sed: the Naturalists' days were numbered.

'Jimmy will be late tonight,' Betty said, as she helped herself to lamb chops, green peas, and creamed corn. 'There's some sort of Purist celebration. Speeches, parades, torch-light rallies.' She added wistfully, 'I guess we can't go down and watch, can we? It'll be pretty, all the lights and voices, and marching.'

'Go ahead.' Listlessly, Walsh spooned up his food. He ate without tasting. 'Enjoy yourself.'

They were still eating, when the door burst open and Carl entered briskly. 'Anything left for me?' he demanded.

Betty half-rose, astonished. 'Carl! You don't - smell any more.'