"I don't know what to think yet--but I do feel better. Rhoda, would you
mind going home alone? I think I'll find a job right away."
"Mind?" she laughed. "It's wonderful news!"
After he left her he wandered around the city awhile. In his paraNormal
days he had never noticed them but it certainly was true that there were
a lot of Suspendeds about. He studied some of them as he went along,
trying to fathom their likes and dislikes by the way they moved and
their expressions. But, unlike the paraNormals, each was different and
it was impossible to see deeply into them.
Then, as he rounded a corner, he was suddenly face to face with his new
enemy. A large flat park stood before him and there in the middle was a
hundred-story tower of smooth seamless material, the home of the Central
System's brain. There were smaller towers at many points in the world
but this was the most important, capable of receiving on its mile-long
axons, antennas of the very soul itself, every thought projected at it
from any point in the solar system. The housing gleamed blindingly in
the sun of high noon, as perfect as the day it had been completed. That
surface was designed to repel all but the most unusual of the radiation
barrages that could bring on subtle changes in the brain within. The
breakdown, he thought bitterly, would take too many centuries to
consider.
He turned away and headed into an Employment Exchange. The man behind
the desk there was a Suspended, too, and showed himself to be
sympathetically understanding as soon as he studied the application
form. "ParaNormal until a few months ago," he nodded. "Tough change to
make, I guess."
Connor managed a little grin. "Maybe I'll be grateful it happened some
day."
"A curious thought, to say the least." He glanced down the application
again. "Always some kind of work available although there do seem to be
more Suspendeds all the time. Robot repair--that's good! Always a
shortage there."
So Connor went to work in a large building downtown along with several
hundred other men whose principal duty was overseeing the repair of
robot servitors by other servitors and rectifying any minor errors that
persisted. He was pleased to find that, while some of his fellow workmen
knew much more about the work than he did, there were as many who knew
less. But the most pleasing thing of all was the way they cooperated
with one another. They could not reach directly into each other's minds
but the very denial of this power gave them a sense of common need.
* * *
He visited Newbridge once a week and that, too, proved increasingly
helpful. As time went on, he found he was spending less of it regretting
what he had lost. But once in a while a paraNormal came through the
workshop, eyes moving past the Suspendeds as if they did not exist and
the old resentment would return in all its bitterness. And when he
himself did not feel this way he could still sense it in men around him.
"Perfectly natural way to feel," Rhoda said, "not that it serves any
purpose."
"It's paraNormal lack of reaction," he tried to explain, "that's what
really bothers me. They don't even bother to notice our hatred because
we have the strength of insects next to theirs. They can all draw on
each others' resources and that totals to infinitely more than any of us
have, even if as individuals they're so much less. The perfect form of
security."
But for a moment one day that security seemed to be collapsing. Above
the work floor in Connor's factory there was a gallery of small but
luxurious offices in which the executive staff of paraNormals 'worked.'
None of them came in more than two days a week but use of these offices
was rotated among them so all were ordinarily occupied and workers,
going upstairs to the stock depot, could see paraNormals in various
stages of relaxation. Usually the paraNormal kept his feet on a desk
rest and, eyes closed, contemplated incoming entertainment. On rarer
occasions he would be leaning over a document on the desk as his mind
received the proper decision from Central.
This particular morning Connor was feeling bitterly envious as he went
by the offices. He had already seen seven smugly-similar faces when he
came by Room Eight. Suddenly the face of its occupant contorted in
agony, then the man got up and paced about as if in a trap. Deciding he
had seen more than was good for him, Connor hurried on. But the man in
Nine was acting out the same curious drama. He quickly retraced his
steps, passing one scene of consternation after another, and went back
down to the work floor, wondering what it all meant.
Soon everybody knew something extraordinary was afoot as all the
paraNormals swarmed noisily onto the runway overlooking the floor. They
were shouting wordless sounds at each other, floundering about as they
did so. Then, with equal suddenness, everything was calm again and,
faces more relaxed, they went back into their offices.
That evening Connor heard the same story everywhere--for ten minutes all
paraNormals had gone berserk. On the monorail he noticed that, though
still more relaxed than their unwelcome fellows, they no longer exuded
that grating _absolute_ sense of security. No doubt about it--for a few
minutes something had gone wrong, completely wrong, with the Central
System. "I don't like it," Rhoda said. "Let's see Dr. Newbridge
tomorrow."
"I'll bet it's a good sign."
Newbridge, though, was also worried when they got to see him. "They're
losing some of their self-confidence," he said, "and that means they're
going to start noticing us. Figure it out, Newman, about one-third the
population of Earth--nobody can get exact figures--is outside the
System. The paraNormals will want to reduce our numbers if more
breakdowns take place. I'll have to go into hiding soon."
"But why you of all people?" Connor protested.
"Because I and a few thousand others like me represent not only an
alternative way of life--all Suspendeds do that--but we possess more
intensive knowledge for rehabilitating society after Central's collapse.
That collapse may come much sooner than we've been expecting. When it
does we're going to have enormous hordes of paras milling around,
helplessly waiting to learn how to think for themselves again. Well,
when we finally reach the telepath stage next time we'll have to manage
it better." He took out an envelope. "If anything happens to me, this
contains the names of some people you're to contact."
"Why don't you come to our place now?" asked Rhoda. "We'll still be able
to hold it for a few more months."
"Can't go yet, too many things to clear up. But maybe later." He rose
and extended his hand to them. "Anyway it's a kind--and brave--offer."
"Sounds overly melodramatic to me," Connor said when they were outside.
"Who'd want to harm a psychiatric worker with no knowledge except what's
in his head and his personal library?"
* * *
But he stopped harping on the point when they reached the monorail
station. Three Suspendeds, obviously better educated than most, were
being led away by a large group of paraNormals. The paraNormals had
their smug expressions back but there was a strange gleam of
determination in their eyes. "Sometimes life itself gets overly
melodramatic," Rhoda said nervously.
The possible fate of these arrested men haunted him all the way home as
did the hostile stares of the people in the monorail car. At home,
though, there was the momentary consolation of a pair of letters from
the boys. There was little information in them but they did at least
convey in every line love for their parents.
But even this consolation did not last long. Why, Connor muttered to
himself, did they have to wait for letters when telephone and radio
systems could have eased their loneliness so much more effectively?
Because the paras did not need such systems and their needs were the
only ones that mattered! His fingers itched to achieve something more
substantial than the work, now childishly routine, that he was doing at
the factory. Just from studying Max he knew he could devise such
workable communication systems. But all that was idle daydreaming--it
wouldn't be in his lifetime.
The next morning Rhoda insisted they go back into the city to try once
more to persuade Newbridge to leave. When they arrived at the Harker
Building it seemed strangely quiet. The few people who were about kept
avoiding each others' glances and they found themselves alone in the
elevator to the 96th level. But Miss Richards, the doctor's
nurse-secretary, was standing in the corridor as they got out. She was
trembling and found it difficult to talk. "Don't--don't go in," she
stuttered. "No help now."
He pushed past her, took one glance at the fire-charred consulting room
where a few blackened splinters of bone remained and turned away,
leading the two women to the elevator. At first Miss Richards did not
want to go but he forced her to come along. "You have to get away from
here--can't do any good for him now."
She sucked in air desperately, blinked back her tears and nodded. "There
was another ten-minute breakdown this morning. A lot of paraNormals
panicked and a vigilante pack came here to fire-blast the Doctor. They
said I'd be next if things got any worse."
Connor pinched his forehead to hold back his own anguish, then pulled
out a sheet of paper. "Dr. Newbridge was afraid of something like this.
He gave me a list of names."
"I know, Mr. Newman, I know them by heart."
"Shouldn't we try to contact one of them?"
As they came out into the street, she stopped and thought a moment.
"Crane would be the easiest to reach. He's an untitled psychiatrist and
one of the alternate leaders for the underground."
"Underground?"
"Oh, they tried to be prepared for every eventual--"
"It's impossible!" Rhoda broke in. She had been looking up and down the
great avenue as they talked. "There isn't one person in the street, not
one!"
An abandoned robot cab stood at the curb and he threw open the door.
"Come on, get in! Something's happening. Miss Richards, set it for this
Crane's address."
The cab started to shoot uptown, turning a corner into another deserted
boulevard. As it skirted the great Park, he pointed at Central Tower.
There seemed to be a slight crack in the smooth surface half way up but,
as a moment's mist engulfed the tower, it looked flawless again. Then
all the mist was gone and the crack was back, a little larger than
before.
* * *
Connor leaned forward and set the cab for top speed as they rounded into
the straight-away of another uptown street. Occasionally they caught
glimpses of frightened faces, clumped in lobby entrances, and once two
bodies came flying out of a window far ahead. "They're killing our
people everywhere," moaned the nurse.
As they approached the crushed forms, Connor slowed down a little.
"They're dressed too well--what's left of them. They're paraNormals!"
A minute later they were at the large apartment block where Crane lived.
They entered the building through a lobby jammed with more silent
people. All were Suspendeds.
At first Crane did not want to let the trio in but when he recognized
Newbridge's nurse he unlocked the heavily-bolted door. He was a
massively-built man with dark eyes set deeply beneath a jutting brow and
the eyes did not blink as Miss Richards told him what had happened.
"We'll miss him," he said, then turned abruptly on Connor. "Have you any
skills?"
"Robotics," he answered.
The great head nodded as Connor told of his experience at work and on
Max. "Good, we're going to need people like you for rebuilding." He
pulled a radio sender and receiver from a cabinet and held an earphone
close to his temple, continuing to nod. Then he put it down again. "I
know what you're going to say--illegal, won't work and all that. Well, a
few of us have been waiting for the chance to build our own
communication web and now we can do it."
"I just want to know why you keep mentioning _our_ rebuilding. They're
more likely to destroy all of us in their present mood."
"_Us?_" He took them to the window and pointed toward the harbor where
thousands of black specks were tumbling into the water. "They're
destroying themselves! Some jumping from buildings but most pouring
toward the sea, a kind of oceanic urge to escape completely from
themselves, to bury themselves in something infinitely bigger than their
separate hollow beings. Before they were more like contented robots. Now
they're more like suicidal lemmings because they can't exist without
this common brain to which they've given so little and from which
they've taken so much."
Connor squared his shoulders. "We'll have our work cut out for us. Dr.
Newbridge saw it all coming, you did too."
"Not quite," Crane sighed. "We assumed that at the time of complete
breakdown the System would open up, throwing all the Subscribers out of
it, leaving them disconnected from each other and waiting for our help.
But it worked out in just the opposite manner!"
"You mean that the System is staying closed as it breaks down? Like a
telephone exchange in which all the lines remained connected and every
call went to all telephones."
"Exactly," Crane replied.
"I don't understand this technical talk," Rhoda protested, watching in
hypnotized horror as the speck swarm swelled ever larger in the sea.
"I'll put it this way," Crane explained. "Their only hope was to have
time to develop the desire for release from the System as it died. But
they are dying _inside_ it. You see, Mrs. Newman, every thought in every
paraNormal's head, every notion, every image, no matter how stupidly
trivial, is now pouring into every other paraNormal's head. They're
over-communicating to the point where there's nothing left to
communicate but death itself!"