Lloyd didn't like Goons. He knew he was supposed to recognize in them
the ultimate in police efficiency, but they still gave him chills. A
Goon, a Governmental Opposer of Neutrality, was a fearful sight. All
were of a size, equal to a micrometer-breadth, a monstrous eight feet
of thick metal and ponderous wheels, bathed from base to apex in the
blurry grey pulsations of their protective force-fields, through which
no power on Earth could penetrate. The metal arms were multi-jointed
and dextrous to a fantastic degree, despite the clumsy look of the
thick tripodal fingers at the ends of the arms. The "eyes" were
wide-set telelenses, a pair of them, to report back all they saw to the
Brain itself, deep beneath the teeming streets of the Hive. And each
Goon spoke with the cold, inflectionless tones of the Brain, the flatly
indifferent voice that could only emanate from a mind of glowing vacuum
tubes and magnetic fields. From any or all of a Goon's six fingertips
could spring the dreaded Snapper Beam, an electronic refinement of
vibrations that struck the human nervous system almost identically with
the chemical effect of strychnine poisoning, except that a Snapper Beam
worked instantly, and always fatally. A brush of the invisible force,
and a man's face creased into the frenzied grin of a madman, his legs
danced wildly, uncontrollably, and the muscles of his back contracted
tightly, relentlessly, remorselessly, until his spine cracked in two.
Lloyd had never seen it employed, save in the theatres. Dispersal of
insurrection by Goons was a popular theme in films. A mob could be
efficiently halted by a sweeping Snapper Beam, to fall like broken
puppets. Goons never lost a film battle. Or a real one.
"Name," said the Goon, as the woman in front of Lloyd moved quickly
out of the arcade. Goons could not inflect. You had to sense their
questions.
"Lloyd Bodger, Junior," said Lloyd, extending his Voteplate for
perusal. The three fingers took the plate from his fingers, and slid it
into a slot in the chest. A sharp click, and the plate was returned to
him, his number now on file in the vast memory banks of the Brain.
"Your sector," said the Goon. With his Voteplate data on file, he would
be hard put to tell a lie. Any discrepancy in his statements would
go hard on him. He hoped, shakily, that the unknown girl had a sharp
memory. She'd only have a few moments to memorize the information on
the plate.
These thoughts flickered through Lloyd's mind in the split second
between the Goon's second query and his outwardly calm response,
"Hundred-Level, Angle One, Unit B."
Lloyd's sector was only one short of being the most important in the
Hive. The President lived in Unit A, in the same Angle. Lloyd Bodger,
Senior, was Secondary Speakster of the entire Hive. But Goons were
no respecters of persons. And less so were they respecters of mere
offspring of persons.
"Assignment," droned the Goon.
"Null," said Lloyd, indicating the question was inapplicable.
"Goal," the Goon sub-questioned.
"Secondary Speakster of the Hive by inheritance."
The Goon's arms suddenly dropped to its thick sides, it swiveled
completely about-face, and rolled swiftly off toward the far end of
the arcade. The interview was over, and it had gone, abruptly as that.
No "Thanks for your time and trouble", or "You pass inspection", or
"That will be all". Goons were built for basic efficiency, not for the
subtler nuances of civilized conversation.
* * * * *
Outside the mouth of the arcade, Light-of-Day was still stark bright
blue throughout the Hive. Light-of-Day was dimmed to Ultrablack at ten
P.M. every night of the nine-day week save Temple Day, when it was left
on until eleven-fifteen, giving time enough for the Kinsmen at the ten
P.M. Service to return to their sectors. No one went out in Ultrablack.
You could see nothing when Light-of-Day went out. A struck flame would
burn in Ultrablack, but the light of the flame would not show. Only the
Goons could see what went on, then. If going out during Ultrablack were
absolutely necessary, as it sometimes was on the Governmental level, a
Goon would come and take you to your destination. Being found upon the
street after Ultrablack was a form of rebellion; you would then have to
be hospitalized for Readjustment.
Just as this last thought was flitting across his mind, Lloyd saw the
girl, standing uncertainly at the entrance to the arcade he'd sent her
to, a solemn, green-clad figure in the midst of the converging people
moving into the entrance toward the nine P.M. Service. Her face lighted
up when she saw him, and Lloyd was disconcerted to note the tears that
sprang to her eyes despite her welcoming smile. "How can I ever--?" she
started, but a quick squeeze of his fingers on her arm stopped her.
"Not here," said Lloyd, awkwardly. "Come with me." She fell into step
alongside him without question. He led the way to a bar near the
inter-level lift. They said nothing to one another until they were
seated in a secluded booth, and had pressed the drink-selector that
would light alongside their booth-number behind the bar. They almost
spoke, then, but the waiter showed up too quickly, and they had to wait
until he'd checked their ages on the Voteplates and left.
"Why did you do it?" she said softly.
Lloyd made a grimace. "Because I'm a damned fool, I guess."
The girl nodded seriously. "You are, you know. Taking a risk like
that--! _You_ might have been detected, yourself."
Lloyd looked at her, puzzled. "Detected?"
"As a member of the movement, of course," she said. "You're the first
I've been able to contact since my escape. The progress you've all
made amazes me. Where in heaven did you people learn to duplicate
Voteplates!? I couldn't believe it when the Goon passed me."
"Hold on--" said Lloyd, pressing his hand furiously hard upon hers
where it lay on the smooth table top between them. "Don't say anymore,
please. You've made an error. I am _not_ a member of your movement."
The girl's eyes widened in sudden fear.
"But--Why did you help me? Who _are_ you?"
Lloyd sighed. "I've already answered your first question. And it is
with the most abject embarrassment that I answer your second: I'm Lloyd
Bodger, the Junior version, the only child of the Secondary Speakster
of the Hive." He saw the utter dismay in her face, and added dryly,
"Are you impressed?"
"Shattered is more like it," she said when she'd found her voice again.
"But an extra Voteplate--"
"I can explain the plate," said Lloyd. "It belongs to my fiancee,
Grace Horton. I was going to her place tonight, after Service, with it."
"But you said she'd dropped it--Oh. I see."
"Exactly. Lost in the sea, from a Tourgyro. The Goon in the 'gyro saw
it happen, which was lucky for Grace. He relayed it instantly to the
Brain, and when the 'gyro landed, another Goon was waiting at the
field with a temporary pass for her. Another person, by the way, would
have needed Readjustment, being so careless, but Grace, as my fiancee,
carries just enough weight to get her over the humps. New Voteplates
have to be approved through the President's office, of course. When
this one came in, today, it was turned over to my father, who gave it
to me. I'm not as official as the Goon who'd ordinarily deliver one of
these, but even protocol bows to sentiment, now and then."
* * * * *
He suddenly curled the fingers of the hand beneath his own until they
lay fisted in his palm. She looked up at him, then, sensing almost to
the word what he was about to say. "Miss--You know I could turn you in
for what you inadvertently told me, just now. I won't, though. You have
enough counter-information on me to make things hot even for the son of
an official."
"I wouldn't--!"
"Be that as it may," said Lloyd, "let me say something: Quit. Quit now.
Get out of this movement, whatever it is. You can't win, you know.
The Goons are invincible. And I hate to think of you, falling under a
Snapper Beam."
"Death is death," the girl sighed. "One way or another."
He looked at her, genuinely at sea. "I'm afraid I don't know what
you mean, Miss. I only helped you avoid hospitalization because I
myself--Well, let my reasons go. But you shouldn't _fear_ going. Sure,
it's annoying to be laid up for awhile, out of the swing of things,
but--"
The girl pulled her hand away. "You're joking," she said. "You must be
joking. If you're truly the son of the Secondary Speakster, you _must_
know the truth!"
"I still don't follow you," Lloyd said sincerely.
"You _don't_ know!" the girl said, shaken. "You're really convinced
that--Listen to me, listen carefully: There _are_ no hospitals! There
is no Readjustment! There is only death."
"You're out of your mind," Lloyd said, recoiling from her vehemence.
"Of course there are hospitals. I've _seen_ them--!"
"Sure," said the girl. "From a Tourgyro. Or in the movies. But have you
ever _been_ to one? Have you ever met anybody who _returned_ from one?"
"My dear girl," Lloyd protested, really growing concerned for her, "do
you realize the _odds_ against meeting a hospital patient? With disease
almost completely obliterated, and a civilization of ten million
people--!"
"Exactly," said the girl, with a peculiar note of triumph. "Ten million
people. Never so much more as ten million and one, and seldom any less.
Doesn't that perturb you?"
"The wars--" Lloyd began.
"Please," the girl groaned, shaking her head. "Spare me the enlistment
speeches. I know the tales of all the men lost in the battles every
quarter, giving their lives in defense of the Hive. Except that there
_aren't_ any wars, nor battles, any more! There's nothing out on the
planet except wild animals and growing plants! We're the only ten
million people on Earth!"
"That's impossible," said Lloyd. "It's childish to be so
insular-minded. Our Hive is one of ten thousand such--"
"Have you seen another, even _one_ other?"
"For what?" said Lloyd. "All the Hives are alike."
"They've really got you brain-washed, haven't they! You believe
everything the Brain dictates, without question!"
"I have to," said Lloyd, with what he thought was irrefutable logic.
"There's no way of checking things like--Well, like your story of no
wars. I mean, can I be expected to check out ten million people to see
if the number of war dead coincides with the total in the Brain?"
"No," said the girl. "You can't. Not so long as your movements are
restricted to certain sectors, and you're told which street to use,
which side of the street, which direction to walk, which hand to turn
the knob with, which--"
"Those are only traffic rules," Lloyd objected. "Can you imagine ten
million people all going to the same sector at the same time? It'd be
disastrous."
"Sure," said the girl. "For the Brain. People might confer."
* * * * *
Lloyd shrugged and gave up. "I can see there's no dissuading you," he
said regretfully. "I only hope that when you're finally caught--"
"They teach me the error of my ways?" she smiled tightly.
"I don't mean it with the inflection _you_ give it," he said. "I really
would like to see you get help. You need help, you know."
"The kind I need is the kind you gave me in The Temple," she said.
"Illegal help. Shelter. Time to make plans. Time to figure out some way
of telling the Hive what's happening to it!"
"You know I've gone farther than I should, already."
"I know," she said. She took the Voteplate from her handbag, and held
it musingly in her fingers. "I really should keep this," she said, then
saw the sudden anxiety in his eyes and relented. "Here, take it." She
slid it under his hand. Lloyd palmed it gratefully. "Our movement could
use a hammerlock on a higher-up," she said, almost wistfully. "But
you're too nice a guy to put the screws on. It'd be a cruel way to show
my gratitude for what you did tonight."
"I did nothing, really," Lloyd said. "I simply saw how fearful you were
of the hospital, and didn't have the heart to turn you in."
"Wait," said the girl. Lloyd stopped speaking. She looked thoughtful,
then leaned forward, very confidentially, and asked, "Does your father
like you? Do you two get along?"
"What is this?" Lloyd demanded suspiciously. "Instant psychoanalysis?"
"Nothing like that," the girl snapped, exasperated. "I mean, does he
_like_ you, as a son, care what _happens_ to you?"
"Well," Lloyd said, slowly, "he'd probably beat my head in for what I
pulled, tonight, with you.... But--yes, he does like me. And he cares
about my welfare."
"Then do this one favor for me," said the girl. "When you get to your
Unit tonight, tell him you feel rotten, all sick inside, and that you
think you should be hospitalized."
"But why should I--?"
"Just tell him. And make it convincing. And, if he really cares about
you--See what happens." She rose from her place. "It'll look funny if I
leave alone. Walk me to the street?"
Once outside, she glanced about, uneasily. "It's after ten. Got to find
a place to hide before Ultrablack."
"But listen--!" Lloyd said, abruptly realizing the grim night that lay
in store for her, with blinding blackness like a palpable pall in the
streets, and only Goons rolling through the empty streets. "You've got
to have _someplace_ to go!"
"_Is_ there someplace? Without a Voteplate?" she said with weary
rhetoric. "I think not. Thanks. Goodnight. And goodbye."
* * * * *
She started off down the street. Lloyd hesitated a moment then rushed
after her. "Wait, _I'll_ hide you."
"Why should you take such a risk, for me?" she said.
"It's not for you," Lloyd said, telling as the full truth something
that was only part of the whole. "It's for me. Purely selfish. I risk
more if you're caught tonight. When they question you, under truth
drugs, about your escape from the Temple--and I'm sure _that_ has them
curious--you will be unable to avoid implicating me."
"Is--Is that your only reason? Your own skin?" she said.
"Yes," he said, forcing conviction into the word.
She shrugged and took his arm. "A fugitive can't afford to be choosy. I
have no prospect of escape _but_ you. I'll let you hide me ... if it'll
make you feel safer."
Lloyd nodded, and started toward the lift that would take the two of
them up to the Hundred-Level. It was only as they got aboard, and he'd
keyed the lift-switch with his Voteplate, that he thought to ask, "By
the way--What's your name?"
"Andra," she said. "Andra Corby."
"A nice name. I like it," said Lloyd. "I wasn't sure if you'd tell me
your name."
Andra shrugged. "It'll be in tomorrow's papers, anyway."
Lloyd looked at her uncomfortably, but she was staring straight ahead
at the grillwork gate of the lift.