Carmody got up, his smile infinitely contemptuous. "We don't all have
your stability index, Jake."
I stared after him, and the thought suddenly struck me that not once had
_I_ considered quitting, ever. Somehow, the thought disturbed me.
Abruptly the public address speaker boomed.
"Attention," Starza's voice crackled. "To the Guild agent, wherever he
may be. Today you murdered thirty-seven Terms. Is this your altruism? Is
this your vaunted justice?" He went on, his voice like organ music,
sweeping away all doubt, making you proud and glad to be a part of
Amalgamated, part of Production, when quite suddenly his voice choked
off. Simultaneously another voice ripped through the hall. A cold ironic
whisper, lashing at the mind.
"_Altruism, yes. But not as you conceive it. Today you passed your own
judgment. You have twenty-four hours to evacuate before this Plant is
destroyed. The verdict is final._"
The dining hall echoed with moans. Hands leaned to agonized temples. The
thoughtcaster again, on a wide band frequency. Through the pain I was
conscious of Starza's voice. The Guild was trying to bluff us. We
wouldn't let them. I stumbled out of the hall, my teeth chattering, took
the lift down to the first level, and got outside, to walk free in the
park.
Here was Eden. Giant conifers and ferns wove a cool green pattern of
delight, and the laughter of the crystal fountains soothed. Terms had
fashioned this garden, had created a poem in living green, a quiet fugue
of _oneness_, each leaf blending exquisitely with the next, the unity,
the perfect whole. For one weak moment I let the pattern seep
insidiously into me, and then, ashamed, focused my eyes on that jarring
splash of white in the center of the garden. The ten-foot model of the
Amalgamated X-3M, squat with power, lifting on her stern jets. A symbol
of Amalgamated's strength, the indomitable spirit of mankind, beauty
born of pure utility. Oddly, a half-remembered poem of the Ancients
flitted through my brain:
_Dirty British Coaster with her salt-caked smokestack,
Butting through the Channel on the mad March days--_
That was man.
On an infinity of planets he had met resistance, through force, through
guile--even through beauty. And he had conquered. I drew a slow deep
breath and sat on one of the benches, staring up at the gigantic
horseshoe of the factory, hearing the muted hum of the atomics.
Twenty-four hours.
I tried to run through my axioms, and I was suddenly terrified. I
couldn't remember them! That damned thoughtcaster. Twice in one day.
Perhaps there was some gradual neural disintegration. My head hurt
terribly. Tomorrow I'd go to Psych for a checkup. I thought about that
marble villa in Venusport, and about my bank account. Not enough.
Another year, just one more year, and I could retire, at thirty-four. I
thought about the Venusian twilights, and the turquoise mists off the
Deeps, and wondered dully if I'd ever see Venus or the Earth again.
I saw Fern, walking among the conifers, her face a pale mask of strain.
"You heard it, Jake?"