Second Variety and Other Stories (33 page)

Tommy reached out. His fingers touched something hot. He jumped. It was a fragment of glass, a
glowing red fragment of molten glass. All round him, in the damp weeds and grass, fragments of glass
gleamed, cooling slowly into darkness. A thousand splinters of stars, glowing and fading around him.

His eyes made out the cigar box, lying on the ground.

"Now they can go back. And I can continue with my work." He picked up the wood box, putting
it under his arm. He gathered up his umbrella and snuffled away, toward the sidewalk beyond the lot.

"Goodbye," Billings said, stopping for a moment. Tommy said nothing.

Billings hurried off down the sidewalk, the cigar box clutched tightly.

He entered his apartment, breathing rapidly. He tossed his black umbrella into the corner and sat
down before the desk, laying the cigar box in front of him. For a moment he sat, breathing deeply and
gazing down at the brown and white square of wood and cardboard.

He had won. He had got them back. They were his, again. And just in time. The filing date for
the report was practically upon him.

Billings slid out of his coat and vest. He rolled up his sleeves, trembling a little. He had been
lucky. Control over the B type was extremely limited. They were virtually out of jurisdiction. That, of
course, was the problem itself. Both the A and B types had managed to escape supervision. They had
rebelled, disobeying orders and therefore putting themselves outside the limit of the plan.

But these -- the new type, Project C. Everything depended on them. They had left his hands, but
now they were back again. Under control, as intended. Within the periphery of supervisory instruction.

Billings slid the rubber band from the box. He raised the lid, slowly and carefully.

Out they swarmed -- fast. Some headed to the right, some to the left. Two columns of tiny
figures racing off, head down. One reached the edge of the desk and leaped. He landed on the rug,
rolling and falling. A second jumped after him, then a third.

Billings broke out of his paralysis. He grabbed frantically, wildly. Only two remained. He swiped
at one and missed. The other -

He grabbed it, squeezing it tight between his clenched fingers. Its companion wheeled. It had
something in its hand. A splinter. A splinter of wood, torn from the inside of the cigar box.

It ran up and stuck the end of the splinter into Billings's finger.

Billings gasped in pain. His fingers flew open. The captive tumbled out, rolling on its back. Its
companion helped it up, half-dragging it to the edge of the desk. Together the two of them leaped.

Billings bent down, groping for them. They scampered rapidly, toward the door to the porch.
One of them was at the lamp plug. It tugged. A second joined it and the two tiny figures pulled together.
The lamp cord came out of the wall. The room plunged into darkness.

Billings found the desk drawer. He yanked it open, spilling its contents onto the floor. He found
some big sulphur matches and lit one.

They were gone -- out onto the porch.

Billings hurried after them. The match blew out. He lit another, shielding it with his hand.

The creatures had got to the railing. They were going over the edge, catching hold of the ivy and
swinging down into the darkness.

He got to the edge too late. They were gone, all of them. All nine, over the side of the roof, into
the blackness of the night.

Billings ran downstairs and out onto the back porch. He reached the ground, hurrying around the
side of the house, where the ivy grew up the side.

Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. Silence. No sign of them anywhere.

They had escaped. They were gone. They had worked out a plan of escape and put it into
operation. Two columns, going in opposite directions, as soon as the lid was lifted. Perfectly timed and
executed.

Slowly Billings climbed the stairs to his room. He pushed the door open and stood, breathing
deeply, dazed from the shock.

deeply, dazed from the shock.

Billings sat down heavily at his desk. For a long time he sat immobile, silent and thoughtful,
gradual comprehension coming to him. It was not his fault. It had happened before -- twice before. And
it would happen again. Each Project would carry the discontent to the next. It would never end, no
matter how many Projects were conceived and put into operation. The rebellion and escape. The evasion
of the plan.

After a time, Billings reached out and pulled his big report book to him. Slowly he opened it to
the place he had left off. From the report he removed the entire last section. The summary. There was no
use scrapping the current Project. One Project was as good as any other. They would all be equal -equal
failures.

He had known as soon as he saw them. As soon as he had raised the lid. They had clothes on.
Little suits of clothing. Like the others, a long time before.

Nathan Hull left his surface car and crossed the pavement on foot, sniffing the chill morning air.
Robot work-trucks were starting to rumble past. A gutter slot sucked night debris greedily. A vanishing
headline caught his eye momentarily:

PACIFIC TUBE COMPLETED;
ASIAN LAND MASS LINKED

He passed on away from the corner, hands in his pockets, looking for Farley's house.

Past the usual Worldcraft Store with its conspicuous motto: "Own Your Own World!" Down a
short grass-lined walk and onto a sloping tilt-front porch. Up three imitation marble stairs. Then Hull
flicked his hand before the code beam and the door melted away.

The house was still. Hull found the ascent tube to the second floor and peered up. No sound.
Warm air blew around him, tinged with faint smells -- smells of food and people and familiar objects.
Had they gone? No. It was only the third day; they'd be around someplace, maybe up on the roof
terrace.

He ascended to the second floor and found it also vacant. But distant sounds drifted to his ears.
A tinkle of laughter, a man's voice. A woman's -- perhaps Julia's. He hoped so -- hoped she were still
conscious.

He tried a door at random, steeling himself. Sometimes during the third and fourth days the
Contest Parties got a little rough. The door melted, but the room was empty. Couches, empty glasses,
ashtrays, exhausted stimulant tubes, articles of clothing strewn everywhere -

Abruptly Julia Marlow and Max Farley appeared, arm in arm, followed by several others,
pushing forward in a group, excited, and red-cheeked, eyes bright, almost feverish. They entered the
room and halted.

"Nat!" Julia broke away from Farley and came breathlessly up to him. "Is it that late already?"

"Third day," Hull said. "Hello, Max."

"Hello, Hull. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something?"

"Nothing. Can't stay. Julia --"

Farley waved a robant over, sweeping two drinks from its chest tray. "Here, Hull. You can stay
long enough for one drink."

long enough for one drink."

"Third day. I'm picking Julia up. If she still wants to leave."

"Don't take her away," the slim blonde protested. She wore a sideglance robe, invisible out of
the corner of the eye, but an opaque fountain when looked at directly. "They're judging right now. In the
lounge. Stick around. The fun's just beginning." She winked at him with heavy blue-lidded eyes, glazed
and sleep-drugged.

Hull turned to Julia. "If you want to stay..."

Julia put her hand nervously on his arm, standing close to him. Not losing her fixed smile she
grated in his ear: "Nat, for God's sake, get me out of here. I can't stand it. Please!"

Hull caught her intense appeal, her eyes bright with desperation. He could feel the mute urgency
quivering through her body, tense and strained. "Okay, Julia. We'll take off. Maybe get some breakfast.
When did you last eat?"

"Two days. I think. I don't know." Her voice trembled. "They're judging right now. God, Nat,
you should have seen --"

"Can't go until the judging's over," Farley rumbled. "I think they're almost through. You didn't
enter, Hull? No entry for you?"

"No entry."

"Surely you're an owner --"

"Nope. Sorry." Hull's voice was faintly ironic. "No world of my own, Max. Can't see it."

"You're missing something." Max beamed dopily, rocking back on his heels. "Quite a time -- best
Contest Party for weeks. And the real fun begins after the judging. All this is just preliminary."

"I know." Hull moved Julia rapidly toward the descent tube. "We'll see you. So long, Bart. Give
me a call when you're out of here."

"Hold it!" Bart murmured suddenly, cocking his head. "The judging's over. The winner is going to
be announced." He pushed toward the lounge, the others excitedly behind. "You coming, Hull? Julia?"

Hull glanced at the girl. "All right." They followed reluctantly. "For a minute, maybe."

A wall of sound struck them. The lounge was a seething chaos of milling men and women.

"I won!" Lora Becker shouted in ecstasy. People pushed and shoved around her, toward the
Contest table, grabbing up their entries. Their voices grew in volume, an ominous rumble of discordant
sound. Robants calmly moved furniture and fixtures back out of the way, clearing the floor rapidly. An
unleashed frenzy of mounting hysteria was beginning to fill the big room.

"I knew it!" Julia's fingers tightened around Hull's arm. "Come on. Let's get out before they start."

"Start?"

"Listen to them!" Julia's eyes flickered with fear. "Come on, Nat! I've had enough. I can't stand
any more of this."

"I told you before you came."

"You did, didn't you?" Julia smiled briefly, grabbing her coat from a robant. She fastened the coat
rapidly around her breasts and shoulders. "I admit it. You told me. Now let's go, for God's sake." She
turned, making her way through the surging mass of people toward the descent tube. "Let's get out of
here. We'll have breakfast. You were right. These things aren't for us."

Lora Becker, plump and middle-aged, was making her way up onto the stand beside the judges,
her entry clasped in her arms. Hull paused a moment, watching the immense woman struggle up, her
chemically corrected features gray and sagging in the unwinking overhead lights. The third day -- a lot of
old-timers were beginning to show the effects, even through their artificial masks.

Lora reached the stand. "Look!" she shouted, holding up her entry. The Worldcraft bubble
glittered, catching the light. In spite of himself Hull had to admire the thing. If the actual world inside was
as good as the exterior...

Lora turned on the bubble. It glowed, winking into brilliance. The roomful of people became
silent, gazing up at the winning entry, the world that had taken the prize over all other comers.

Lora Becker's entry was masterful. Even Hull had to admit it. She increased the magnification,
bringing the microscopic central planet into focus. A murmur of admiration swept the room.

Lora Becker's entry was masterful. Even Hull had to admit it. She increased the magnification,
bringing the microscopic central planet into focus. A murmur of admiration swept the room.

"Wonderful," Bart Longstreet said softly, coming over beside Hull. "But the old hag has been at it
sixty years. No wonder she won. She's entered every Contest I can remember."

"It's nice," Julia admitted in a clipped voice.

"You don't care for it?" Longstreet asked.

"I don't care for any of this!"

"She wants to go," Hull explained, moving toward the descent tube. "We'll see you later, Bart."

Bart Longstreet nodded. "I know what you mean. In many ways I agree. You mind if I --"

"Watch!" Lora Becker shouted, her face flushed. She increased the magnification to maximum
focus, showing details of the minute city. "See them? See?"

The inhabitants of the city came into sharp view. They hurried about their business, endless
thousands of them. In cars and on foot. Across spidery spans between buildings, breathtakingly beautiful.

Lora held the Worldcraft bubble up high, breathing rapidly. She gazed around the room, her eyes
bright and inflamed, glittering unhealthily. The murmurings rose, sweeping up in excitement. Numerous
Worldcraft bubbles came up, chest-high, gripped in eager, impassioned hands.

Lora's mouth opened. Saliva dribbled down the creases of her sagging face. Her lips twitched.
She raised her bubble up over her head, her doughy chest swelling convulsively. Suddenly her face
jerked, features twisting wildly. Her thick body swayed grotesquely -- and from her hands the
Worldcraft bubble flew, crashing to the stand in front of her.

The bubble smashed, bursting into a thousand pieces. Metal and glass, plastic parts, gears, struts,
tubes, the vital machinery of the bubble, splattered in all directions.

Pandemonium broke loose. All around the room other owners were smashing their worlds,
breaking them and crushing them, stamping on them, grinding the delicate control mechanisms underfoot.
Men and women in a frenzy of abandon, released by Lora Becker's signal, quivering in an orgy of
Dionysian lust. Crushing and breaking their carefully constructed worlds, one after another.

"God," Julia gasped, struggling to get away, Longstreet and Hull beside her.

Faces gleamed with sweat, eyes feverish and bright. Mouths gaped foolishly, muttering
meaningless sounds. Clothes were torn, ripped off. A girl went down, sliding underfoot, her shrieks lost in
the general din. Another followed, dragged down into the milling mass. Men and women struggled in a
blur of abandon, cries and gasps. And on all sides the hideous sounds of smashing metal and glass, the
unending noise of worlds being destroyed one after another.