[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction
May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: Man, it would appear, can adapt to any form of society ...
but not one in which the knowledge of extending life becomes a passport
to death!]
The door-knob turned, then rattled.
Dr. David Wong stepped out from behind the large bookcase, listening. He
pressed the brass handle of the top shelf and the case silently pivoted
back to become part of the wall, obliterating the dark passage behind
it.
An imperative knocking began at the door; David walked softly to his
desk and picked up his notebook. He tried to remain relaxed, but he
could feel the tightening of his shoulder muscles. With his right hand,
he shut his notebook and concealed it under a mass of papers, while his
left hand pressed the desk button to release the lock of the door.
The door burst open and two men strode in, a black-uniformed Ruler
followed by a watchguard. Black-visored cap still on his head, the first
man marched to the desk and spoke without ceremonial greeting.
"The door was locked, Dr. Wong?"
"Correct, Dr. Lanza. The door was locked."
"I shall have to instruct the guard to report it. Have you forgotten
Leader Marley's Maxim: Constructive science does not skulk behind locked
doors?"
Wong leaned back in his chair and smiled at his visitors.
"The wisdom of Leader Marley is a constant help to us all, but his
generosity is also a byword. Surely you remember that on the tenth
anniversary of his accession, he honored me by the grant of occasional
hours of Privacy, as a reward for my work on Blue Martian Fever?"
"I remember now," said Dr. Lanza.
"But what for?" asked Officer Blagun. "It's anti-social!"
"Evidently you have forgotten, Officer Blagun, another Maxim of Leader
Marley: Nature has not equipped one Category to judge the needs of
another; only the Leader understands all. Now, Dr. Lanza, will you tell
me the reason for this visit? Since your promotion from Research to
Ruler, I have rarely been honored by your attention."
"I am here with a message," said Lanza. "Leader Marley's compliments,
and he requests your presence at a conference on next Wednesday at ten
in the morning."
"Why did you have to deliver that in person? What's wrong with using
Communications?"
"It's not my province to ask questions, Dr. Wong. I was told to come
here, and I was told to wait for a reply."
"Next Wednesday at ten? Let's see, this is Friday." David Wong pressed
the key of his electronic calendar, but he had no need to study the dull
green and red lights that flashed on to indicate the pattern of his day.
He did not delude himself that he had any real choice, but he had
learned in the past fifteen years that it kept up his courage to
preserve at least the forms of independence. He allowed a decent thirty
seconds to ponder the coded lights, then blanked the board and looked up
with an easy smile.
"Dr. Wong's compliments to Leader Marley, and he will be honored to
attend a conference on Wednesday at ten."
Nodding his head, Dr. Lanza glanced briefly around the office. "Queer,
old-fashioned place you have here."
"Yes. It was built many years ago by a slippery old politician who
wanted to be safe from his enemies. Makes a good place for Research,
don't you think?"
Lanza did not answer. He strode to the door, then paused to look back.
"You understand, Dr. Wong, that I shall have to report the locked door?
I have no choice."
"Has anyone?"
Officer Blagun followed his superior, leaving the door wide open behind
them. Wong remained rigid in his chair until the clack of heels on
marble floor had become a mere echo in his brain, then stretched out his
hand to the intercom. He observed with pride that his hand did not
tremble as he pressed the dial.
"Get me Dr. Karl Haslam ... Karl? Can you meet me in the lab right away?
I've thought of a new approach that might help us crack the White
Martian problem. Yes, I know we planned on conferring tomorrow, but it's
getting later than you think."
Again he pressed the dial. "Get me Leah Hachovnik. Leah? I've got some
new stuff to dictate. Be a good girl and come along right away."
Breaking the connection, he drew out his notebook and opened it.
David Wong was a big man, tall, well-muscled, compact, and he might have
been handsome but for a vague something in his appearance. His lean face
and upcurving mouth were those of a young man; his hair was a glossy
black, too thick to be disciplined into neatness; and he was
well-dressed, except for the unfashionable bulging of his jacket pocket,
where he carried a bulky leather case of everfeed pens and notebooks.
But it was his eyes that were disconcerting--an intense blue, brilliant
and direct, they had a wisdom and a comprehension that seemed
incongruous in so young a face.
A worried frown creased his forehead as he turned back to one of the
first pages, studying the symbols he had recorded there, but he looked
up without expression on hearing the tapping of slender heels.
"Quick work, Leah. How are you this morning?"
"As if anybody cared!" Leah Hachovnik settled down before the compact
stenograph machine, her shoulders slumped, her thin mouth drooping at
the corners.
"Feel like working?" said David.
"As much as I ever do, I guess. Sometimes I wonder if the traitors in
the granite quarries have it any worse than I do. Sometimes I wish I'd
been born into some other Category. Other people have all the luck. I
don't know what it is, Dr. Wong, but I just don't seem to have the pep I
used to have. Do you think it could be the climate here in New York?"
"People do grow older, Leah," he reminded her gently.
"I know. But Tanya--you remember my twin sister Tanya, the one that got
so sick that time, ten years ago, when you did that experiment with Blue
Martian Fever, and she had to be sent out to Arizona? Of course I
haven't ever seen her since then--people in Office Category never get
permission for that kind of travel--but she writes me that ever since
she got well again she feels just like a kid, and works as hard as she
ever did, and she still seems to enjoy life. Why, she's had three
proposals of marriage this past year alone, she says, and yet she's
thirty-five, just the same age as I am--being twins, you know?--and
nobody's proposed to me in ages. Well, I'm certainly going to try to
find out what her method is. She's coming back tomorrow."
"She's _what_?"
"Coming back. BureauMed is sending her back here to the Institute to
take up her old job in Intercom. Funny they haven't told you, her being
an old employee and all."
Dr. Wong was gripping his notebook in stiff fingers, but he replied
easily, "Oh, well, BureauMed is a complex organization. With all they
have to do, it's not surprising they get things mixed up sometimes."
"Don't I know!" she sighed, and droned on in a dreary monotone. "This
one institute alone would turn your hair gray before your time. I don't
know how some people seem to keep so young. I was just thinking to
myself this morning when I watched you walking through the office, 'Why,
Dr. Wong doesn't seem to age a bit! He looks just as young as he ever
did, and look at me!'"
Looking at her, David admitted to himself, was not the pleasure it had
once been. Ten years ago, she and her twin sister Tanya had been plump,
delectable, kittenish girls, their mental equipment no more than
standard for Office Category, of course, but their physical appearance
had been outstanding, almost beautiful enough for Theater Category.
Creamy ivory skin, gray eyes, and soft red hair dramatized by a freakish
streak of white that shot abruptly back from the center of the forehead,
Tanya's swirling to the left, and Leah's to the right, one girl the
mirror image of the other.
But the Leah sitting before him now was thin and tired-looking, her
sallow skin was lined, and her soft voice had become vinegary with
disappointments. Her red hair had faded to a commonplace brown, and the
white streak in the center was yellowed. An unwanted, souring old maid.
But there was only one response to make.
"You look fine to me, Leah," he said. "What time did you say your sister
is coming?"
"Tomorrow evenings' Playground Jet. Why?"
"We'll have to think of a way to celebrate. But right now, I'd like to
get started on my new paper. I've got to meet Dr. Haslam before long."
"I know." She raised her faded gray eyes. "That was a funny thing you
said to him just now over the intercom. You said to him it was getting
late. But it isn't late. It's only eleven o'clock in the morning."
David stared. "Do you mean to say you were listening to our
conversation? Why did you do that?"
She fidgeted and turned away from him. "Oh, I just happened to be at
Comdesk and I guess the circuit wasn't closed. Does it matter? But it
seemed a funny thing for you to say."
"People in Office Category are not supposed to understand Research," he
said severely. "If they were capable of Research, Leader Marley's
planners would have placed them there. As for its being late, it is, as
far as White Martian Fever is concerned. Which is the subject of my
paper. Prepare to take dictation."
Shrugging her shoulders, she poised her bony fingers over the keys of
the little machine.
"Paper for delivery at the Summer Seminar," he began.
"But, Dr. Wong, that doesn't have to be ready for three months yet!"
"Miss Hachovnik! Please remember Leader Marley's Maxim: Individuals born
into Office Category are the bone and muscle of the State; Nature has
designed them to act, not to think."
"Yes, Dr. Wong. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry, Leah. We're old friends, so I won't report you. All set?"
He took a pencil from his leather case and tapped it against his
notebook as he ruffled the pages, wondering how to begin. It was hard to
think logically when a part of his mind was in such confusion. Had Leah
been listening in to all of his phone conversations? If so, it was
fortunate that he had long ago devised an emergency code. Was it only
idle curiosity that had prompted her or was she acting under orders? Was
anyone else watching him, he wondered, listening to his talk, perhaps
even checking the routine of his experimental work? There was Lanza this
morning--why had he come unannounced, in person, when a Communications
call would have served the purpose equally well?