Dr. Futurity (1960) (6 page)

One wall of the chamber looked onto the edge of a cube. Going in that direction, Parsons discovered with a shock that he was seeing only a slice of the cube; virtually all of it lay buried in the ground, and he could only infer dimly what its full size might be.

The cube was alive.

The ceaseless undercurrent drummed up from the floor itself; he felt it moving through his body. An illusion, created by the countless technicians hurrying back and forth? Self-regulated freight elevators brought up empty containers, loaded themselves with new material and descended again. Armed guards prowled back and forth, keeping an eye on things; he saw them watching even Stenog. But the sense of life was not an illusion; he felt the emanation from the cube, the churning. A controlled, measured metabolism, but with a peculiar overtone of restlessness. Not a tranquil life, but with the tidal ebb and flow of the sea. Disturbing to him, and also to the other people; he caught, on their faces, the same fatigue and tension that he had seen with Stenog.

And he felt coldness rising from the cube.

Odd,
he thought.
Alive and cold . . . not like our life, not
warm
. In fact, he could see the breaths of the individuals in the corridors, his own, Stenog's, the white fog blown out by each of them. The pneuma.

"What is in it?" he asked Stenog.

Stenog said, "We are."

At first, he did not understand; he assumed the man meant it metaphorically. Then, by degrees, he began to see.

"Zygotes," Stenog said. "Arrested and frozen in cold-pack by the hundred billion. Our total seed. Our horde. The
race
is in there. Those of us now walking around--" He made a motion of dismissal. "A minute fraction of what's contained in there, the future generations to come."

So,
Parsons thought,
their minds aren't fixed on the present;
it's the future that's real to them. Those to come, in a sense, are
more real than those who are walking around now
.

"How is it regulated?" he asked Stenog.

"We keep a constant population. Roughly, two and three-quarter billion. Each death automatically starts a new zygote from cold-pack along its regular developmental path. For each death there is an instantaneous new life; the two are interwoven."

Parsons thought,
So out of death comes life. In their view,
death is the cause of life
.

"Where do the zygotes come from?" he inquired.

"Contributed according to a specific and very complex pattern. Each year we have Lists. Contest examinations between the tribes. Tests that cover all phases of ability, physical fitness, mental faculties, and intuitive functioning at every level and of every description and orientation. From the most abstract to the object-correlatives, the manual skills."

With comprehension, Parsons said, "The contribution of gametes is proportional to the test ratings of each tribe."

Stenog nodded. "In the last Lists the Wolf Tribe gained sixty victories out of two hundred. Therefore it contributed thirty percent of the zygotes for the next period, more than the three next highest-scoring tribes. As many gametes as possible are taken from the actual high-scoring men and women. The zygotes are always formed here, of course. Unauthorized zygote formation is illegal . . . but I don't want to offend your sensibilities. Extremely talented persons have made substantial contributions, even where their particular tribes have scored low. Once a gifted individual is located, all efforts are made to obtain his or her total supply of gametes. The Mother Superior of the Wolf Tribe, for example. None of Loris' gametes are lost. Each is removed as it is formed and immediately impregnated at the Fountain. Inferior gametes, the seed of low-scores, are ignored and allowed to perish."

Now, with first real clarity, Parsons grasped the underlying scheme of this world. "Then your stock is always improving."

"Of course," Stenog said, surprised.

"And the girl, Icara. She wanted to die because she was maimed, disfigured. She knew she would have had to compete in the Lists that way."

"She would have been a negative factor. She was what we call substandard. Her tribe would have been pulled down by her entry. But as soon as she was dead, a superior zygote, from a later stock than her own, was released. And at the same time a nine month embryo was brought out and severed from the Soul Cube. A Beaver died. Therefore this new baby will wear the emblem of the Beaver Tribe. It will take Icara's place."

Parsons nodded slowly. "Immortality." Then death, he realized, has a positive meaning. Not the end of life. And not merely because these people
wish
to believe, but because
it is
a fact.
Their world is constructed that way.

This is no idle mysticism!
he realized.
This is their science.

On the drive back to Stenog's house, Parsons contemplated the bright-eyed men and women along the route. Strong noses and chins. Clear skins. A handsome race of imposing men and full-breasted young women, all in the prime of youth. Laughing, hurrying through their fine city.

He caught a glimpse, once, of a man and woman passing along a spidery ramp, a strand of shimmering metal connecting two spires. Neither of them was over twenty. Holding hands as they rushed along, talking and smiling at each other. The girl's small, sharply-etched face, slender arms, tiny feet in sandals. A rich face, full of life and happiness. And health.

Yet, this was a society built on death. Death was an everyday part of their lives. Individuals died and no one was perturbed, not even the victims. They died happily, gladly. But it was wrong. It was against nature. A man was supposed to defend his life instinctively. Place it before everything else. This society denied a basic drive common to all life forms.

Struggling to express himself, he said, "You invite death. When someone dies, you're glad."

"Death," Stenog said, "is part of the cycle of existence, as much so as birth. You saw the Soul Cube. A man's death is as significant as his life." He spoke disjointedly, as traffic ahead of him caused him to turn his attention back to driving.

And yet, Parsons thought, this man does everything he can to avoid piling up his car. He's a careful driver. A contradiction.

In my own society--

Nobody thought about death. The system in which he had been born, in which he had grown up, had no explanation for death. A man simply lived out his life and tried to pretend that he wouldn't die.

Which was more realistic? This integration of death into the society, or the neurotic refusal of his own society to consider death
at all
? Like children, he decided. Unable and unwilling to imagine their own deaths . . . that's how my world operated. Until mass death caught up with us all, as apparently it did.

"Your forefathers," Stenog said, "the early Christians, I mean, hurled themselves under chariot wheels. They sought death, and yet out of their beliefs came your society."

Parsons said slowly, "We may ignore death, we may immaturely
deny
the existence of death, but at least we don't court death."

"You did indirectly," Stenog said. "By denying such a powerful reality, you undermined the rational basis of your world. You had no way to cope with war and famine and overpopulation because you couldn't bring yourselves to discuss them. So war
happened
to you; it was like a natural calamity, not man-made at all. It became a force. We control our society. We contemplate all aspects of our existence, not merely the good and pleasant."

For the rest of the trip they drove in silence.

After they had gotten out of the car, and had started up the front steps of the house, Stenog paused at a shrub that grew by the porch. In the porchlight he directed Parsons' attention to the various blooms.

"What do you notice growing?" he said, lifting a heavy stalk.

"A bud."

Stenog lifted another stalk. "And here is a blooming flower. And over here, a dying flower. Past its bloom." He took a knife from his belt and with one swift, clean swipe he severed the dying flower from the shrub and dropped it over the railing. "You saw two things: the bud, which is the life to come. The blossom, which I cut off so that new buds could form."

Parsons was deep in thought. "But somewhere in this world, there's someone who doesn't think like you do. That must be why I was brought here. Sooner or later--"

"They'll show up?" Stenog finished, his face animated.

All at once Parsons understood why no attempt had been made to keep him under careful guard. Why Stenog drove him so openly and readily about the city, brought him to his house, to the Fountain itself.

They
wanted
the contact made.

Inside the house, in the living room, Amy sat at the harpsichord. At first the music did not seem familiar to Parsons, but after a time he became aware that she was playing Jelly Roll Morton tunes, but in some strange, inaccurate rhythm.

"I got to looking for something from your period," she said, pausing. "You didn't happen ever to see Morton, did you? We consider him on a par with Dowland and Schubert and Brahms."

Parsons said, "He lived before my time."

"Am I doing it wrong?" she said, noticing his expression. "I've always been fond of music of that period. In fact, I did a paper on it, in school."

"Too bad I can't play," he said. "We had TV, in our period. Learning to play a musical instrument had just about vanished as either a social or a cultural experience." In fact, he had never played a musical instrument of any kind; he recognized the harpsichord only from having seen one in a museum. This culture had revived elements from centuries previous to his own, had made them a part of their world; for him, music had been important, but it had come from recordings, or, at best, concerts. The idea of playing music in the home was as incredible as owning one's own telescope.

"I'm surprised you don't play," Stenog said. He had produced a bottle and glasses. "What about this? Fermented drink, made from grains."

"I think I recall that," Parsons said with amusement.

Still very seriously, Stenog said, "As I understand it, liquor was introduced to take the place of drugs popular during your period. It has fewer toxic side-effects than the drugs you're probably familiar with." He opened the bottle and began to pour. From the color and smell, Parsons guessed that the stuff was a sour-mash bourbon.

He and Stenog sat drinking, while Amy played her eerie version of Dixieland jazz at the harpsichord. The house had a deeply peaceful air, and he felt himself becoming a little more calm. Was this, after all, so vile a society?

How, he thought, can a society be judged by an individual created by another society? There's no disinterested standard. I'm merely comparing this world to mine. Not to a third.

The bourbon seemed to his taste unaged; he drank only a little. Across from him, Stenog filled his own glass a second time, and now Amy came over. He watched her go to the cupboard for a glass; Stenog had not gotten one out for her. The status of women . . . and yet, in his contact with Wade and Icara, he had not been conscious of this disparity.

"That illegal political group," he said. "What did they advocate?"

Stenog stirred. "Voting rights for women."

Although she had her drink, Amy did not join them. She retired to a corner and seated herself, small and quiet and thoughtful.

But she did mention going to school, Parsons remembered. So women aren't excluded from educational opportunities. Perhaps education itself, especially nonscientific education, such as a degree in history, has no status here. Something appropriate for women: a mere hobby.

Studying his glass, Stenog said, "Do you like my
puella
?"

Embarrassed, Parsons said, "I--" He could not keep himself from glancing in her direction. She showed no emotion.

"You're staying here tonight," Stenog said. "You can sleep with Amy if you want."

To that, Parsons could say nothing. Guardedly, he looked from Stenog to Amy, trying to make out what actually was meant. Here, the language barrier had betrayed him--and the difference in customs.

"That's not done in my time segment," he said finally.

"Well, you're here now," Stenog said with a touch of ire.

Certainly, that was true. Parsons considered, and then said, "I should think this practice would upset your careful control of zygote formation."

At once, both Stenog and Amy started. "Oh," Amy said. "Of course." To Stenog she said, "Remember, he didn't go through the Initiation." With visible uneasiness she added, "It's a good thing he spoke up. This could be a very dangerous situation. I'm surprised none of you thought about it."

Drawing himself up, Stenog said with pride, "Parsons, prepare to have your sensibilities offended."

"That isn't important," Amy said to him. "I'm thinking of situations he might get into."

Paying no attention to her, Stenog focused his attention on Parsons. "All males are sterilized at the inception of puberty," he said, an expression of deep satisfaction on his face. "Myself, included."

"So you can see," Amy said, "why this custom causes no particular trouble. But in your case--"

"No, no," Stenog said. "You can't sleep with her, Parsons. In fact, you can't sleep with any of the women." Now he, too, had become disturbed. "You should be gotten to Mars, I think. As soon as it's feasible. A thing like this . . . it could cause great problems."

Approaching Parsons, Amy said, "More to drink?" She started to refill his glass. He did not protest.

SIX

It became feasible at four that morning. Suddenly Jim Parsons found himself on his feet, out of bed; his clothes were handed to him, and before he had even gotten half-dressed the several men, wearing government uniforms of some kind, had him in motion, out of the house to a parked car. No one spoke to him. The men worked fast, and with skill. A moment later the car carried him at high speed along the empty highway, away from the city.

At no time did he see any sign of Stenog. Or of Amy.