Under the stark bluewhite glow that glittered from hidden niches onto
the faceted undersurface of the vast vaulted crystal dome, the people
milled and jockeyed for position near the dais. There was still room
to move about and select a standing-site; most of the heavy thronging
was still at the entrances, the wide, squat arches giving egress to the
fifteen block-long arcades that radiated from the center of the temple
like the spokes of a gigantic wheel. Between the pillars that framed
these arches, long unbroken walls served as firm backdrops for the Vote
Boxes, twenty-five to a wall, three hundred seventy-five in all, to
service a building that could hold five thousand.
Lloyd Bodger took a quick look at his wristwatch while there was still
sufficient elbow-room to lift his arm. Two minutes till eight P.M.
Service began promptly on the hour. He gauged his nearness to the dais
with a practiced eye, then let himself be wedged into place by the
increasing pressure of urgent bodies about him. It would not do to
remain in the rear of the hemispherical room, where he might lose some
of the Speakster's words, words that might have direct bearing upon
the next Vote; nor would it do to let himself stand too near the dais,
from which central point he might find himself at the tail end of the
voting line, should the Proposition Screens begin to glow during the
Service. A decisive Vote could be made in ten seconds, but each Kinsman
was allowed thirty. The Screen would only propose the bill for five
minutes before the Count. That meant that Lloyd must be at least the
tenth person in a line in order to be assured his chance to nock his
Voteplate in the slot. He'd missed two of his allowable three non-Votes
this quarter, already. It would not do to miss another.
* * * * *
The glow from the dome decreased, suddenly, as the center of the dais
unfolded back into fifteen equal wedge-segments, like a blossoming
flower, and the Speakster rose into view amid a solemn hush. Bright
golden light made the white velvet robe shimmer like a slippery flame,
and made the shadowy aspect of the cowl-hidden features all the more
terrible. The golden light spilled upward from the surfaces of the
fifteen triangular "petals", bathing the Speakster thoroughly in bright
radiance, leaving the remainder of the Temple in even darker darkness
by contrast.
The arms of the Speakster rose slowly, angling domeward over his unseen
head, until the folds of the weighty sleeves slid back a trifle at
the cuff, exposing the wax-white hands, fingers spread wide apart,
palms toward the beginning of the dome-curve, as though warding off
impending dangers. Lloyd shivered, suddenly, despite the suffocating
warmth of the crowd. This would not be a regular Service. That was the
Danger-stance. Unconsciously, he held his breath, listening, as the
mass tension grew unbearably electric.
"There cannot be Service tonight!" thundered the Speakster. "We are
polluted from within. It would be sacrilege to have Service with a
traitor in our midst!" Then, over the rising gasp that arose from the
multitude, "She has been traced to this holy place, in a fiendish
attempt to lose herself among the masses, to hide her rottenness amid
the healthy flesh of the Kinsmen! Remain in your places--!" cried the
Speakster, as a short-lived Brownian Movement began in the close-packed
mob. People froze in place at the peremptory shout. "The Goons have
been alerted, and are even now converging through the arcades!" said
the Speakster. A sigh of relief whispered like a concerted zephyr over
the up-turned faces. "She will be found out, have no fear. When I
depart and the Light-of-Day returns, you must exit through the arcade
by which you entered. You will be checked by a squad of Goons on your
way out. Remember, a good Kinsman has nothing to fear!"
The outstretched arms swung down until the pallid palms came firmly
together before the Speakster's chest, the cowled head bowed low, and
then the figure on the dais descended from sight, the stiff "petals"
re-closing over the spot on which the Speakster had stood, and the
golden light vanishing as the Light-of-Day sprang bluely into harsh
life against the crystal dome. Lloyd turned obediently, as soon as
movement was possible in the dispersing crowd, and started toward his
point of entrance, the arcade that would lead him into his sector of
the Hive.
Without warning, the Proposition Screens flickered on, and the crowd's
movement jerked to a confused halt. Then, as though collectively
realizing that there was time enough to be checked by the Goons after
the Vote, people formed into neat lines, queuing up before the Vote
Boxes that lined the walls.
* * * * *
Lloyd took another look at his watch. Five past eight. That gave
him till ten past to arrive at the Vote Box. With mounting anxiety,
he counted heads in the line before him. He was twelfth. If each
person took the allotted thirty seconds--He'd miss his Vote, have to
be hospitalized for Readjustment. He tried to stay calm as the line
advanced.
With two minutes to go, he found four people before him. The first,
a grey-suited man with very little hair, nocked his plate in the
slot--Then stood and pondered. It was fully twenty-five seconds before
he depressed one of the buttons in the Vote Box's interior, where
his choice would remain secret. Another few seconds to retrieve his
plate, and then a full six precious seconds while the next person, a
skinny woman very near the compulsory retirement age, fumbled in a deep
leather purse for her card. And _she_ pondered....
Sweat sprang out on Lloyd's forehead. There wouldn't be enough time.
There _couldn't_ be ... unless--
"Miss!" he said, to the back of the small blonde head in front of him.
The girl spun about to face him, dark green eyes wide in fright, breath
hissing between parted lips. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said,
contritely. "It's just that--" It was terrible, telling such an awful
confidence to a total stranger, but it was the only way to convince her
quickly. "I've missed twice this quarter," he blurted. "Not my fault.
I'm a good Kinsman, honestly. It was line-jams, both times. Too many
people for too few Vote Boxes. You must believe me!"
"What--" she said, a little dazedly. "What can _I_ do?"
"Let me have your place in line!" begged Lloyd. "I've timed it. Less
than a minute left till Count, and two ahead of me, including yourself.
_Please_ help me!"
"I--" she said, with a funny, almost hysterical smile. "I don't know
why you should be so--" Then she stepped aside, swiftly. "Go ahead.
Hurry!"
Lloyd leaped into the breach without even pausing to voice his thanks.
As the young man before him stepped away, Lloyd jammed his plate into
the slot, and shoved his fingers inside the handspace. A fumble, and he
had a button, he didn't know which one. Pro was right, Con was left,
but he just prodded it inward without checking its location. Then the
light died on the screen, and his plate popped out of the slot. He
caught it deftly, sighed in quavery relief, and turned to thank his
benefactor. He saw her, trailing after the departing people toward one
of the arcades, shuffling her feet, apparently in no hurry. Then an
uncomfortable thought struck him, and he ran to catch up with her.
"Miss--!" he said, taking her arm. Again the brief look of fear on
her features, then she smiled. It was a small, very tired smile. "You
needn't thank me--" she began.
"I wasn't going to--" said Lloyd. Then, embarrassed, "I mean, of
_course_ I'd thank you, but that isn't why I came after you. I just
realized--Have _you_ missed any Votes this quarter? I'd hate to be the
cause of _your_ Readjustment...."
"There's no danger," she said softly, "of my getting in trouble for
non-voting."
* * * * *
He suddenly remembered the words of the Speakster, and dropped the
girl's hand as though it had burnt him. "You--You're the--"
"Please!" begged the girl, before his voice could rise in a warning
shout to the crowd. "Don't give me away!"
"They'll get you anyhow," he said flatly, with a note of near-pity in
his voice. "By rights, I should raise a cry right this instant, to save
the Goons the trouble of checking all the _good_ Kinsmen." A secondary
thought hit him, and he took a very short step backward. "And you're
diseased. The longer you remain in contact with the crowd, the more
likely a spread of the contagion."
"I'm _not_!" she almost shouted, then clenched her jaws, and got
control of herself. Bright moisture began to trickle from the corners
of her eyes, and she dabbed angrily at the warm salty drops. "I
was hurt, yes!" she said, suddenly pulling back the long sleeve of
her bright green dress, for a brief moment. Lloyd saw the ragged,
pink-edged cicatrix on the underside of her forearm, and winced. "It's
healed," she said. "I didn't _need_ the hospital, don't you see?"
Lloyd saw, and stood there, his mind fumbling dizzily for a direction
to take. The last straggling ends of the crowd were moving into the
arcades, now. Lloyd took his bearings, saw that only one or two people
were now headed for his own arcade, and began to back off in that
direction, saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so terribly sorry. I must go, now."
She nodded, once, then turned her back on him, and stood, small and
helpless, in the growing void that was the Temple proper. Lloyd turned
from her and started toward his arcade. Then he stopped and looked back
at her. She _was_ healed, after all.... He remembered with a sense of
shame the time he'd broken a finger, and hadn't reported for hospital
assignment, because a favorite cowboy was at the neighborhood theatre
that afternoon. He never _had_ gone in, then, being fearful lest the
examining doctors notice that he'd delayed. The finger had healed
itself, a trifle crookedly, and Lloyd had never told anyone of his
dereliction, not even his father. Especially not his father.
* * * * *
Suddenly, he turned and ran back to the girl. "Do they know you?" he
said, fiercely, frightened by his own daring.
"Wh--Who?" gasped the girl, startled by his reappearance. "_Who_ know
me?" Then, catching his meaning, "The goons, you mean?" Lloyd nodded
impatiently. "No, they don't. But they don't have to. I--I have no
Voteplate."
"Can't you girls hang onto _anything_?!" he muttered. "Don't tell me
_yours_ fell in the sea from a Tourgyro?"
"You say that as though you know somebody whose _did_," said the girl.
"My fiancee," he explained, adding, with an embarrassed grin, "I'll be
twenty-five just after next Marriage Day. I found her in the phonebook
listings."
"But--What'd _she_ do?" the girl persisted. "Without a Voteplate, she
could be picked up any time, in the first Goon inspection that arose."
"Take this," he urged, pressing something into her hand. "Your arcade
is third over from mine. When you get outside, wait. I'll meet you
there and get this back. Don't fail me, please."
He spun about and dashed toward his arcade, leaving her standing in the
center of the floor, staring dumbfounded at the flat metal plate in her
hand. Trembling, she turned toward the indicated arch, and followed
swiftly after the stragglers entering it, her perspiring fingers
clamped rigidly upon the engraved face of the Voteplate.