Part 15 (1/2)
”Repeat your orders,” I said, approaching him.
He let the air out of his suction cups with a loud whistle, twitched his legs mindlessly, and ran up on the ceiling.
”Come down,” I said sternly, ”and answer my question.”
He hung over my head, this poor long-obsolete cyber, intended for work an the asteroids, pitiable and out of place, covered with flakes of corrosion and blobs of black underground dirt.
”Get down,” I barked.
He flung the dead rat at me and sped off into the dark.
”Basalts! Granites!” he yelled in different voices.
”Pseudo-metamorphic types! I am over Berlin! Do you copy! Time to get to bed!”
I threw away the rod and followed him. He ran as far as the next lamp, came down, and began to dig the concrete rapidly, like a dog, with his heavy work manipulators. Poor chap, even in better times his brain was capable of performing properly only in less than one one-hundredth of a G, and now he was altogether out of his mind. I bent over him and began to search for the control center under his armor. ”The rotters,” I said aloud. The controls were peened over as though battered with a sledge. He stopped digging and grabbed me by the leg.
”Stop!” I shouted. ”Desist!”
He desisted, lay down on his side, and informed me in a ba.s.so voice, ”I am deathly tired of him, Eli. Now would be the time for a shot of brandy.”
Contacts clicked inside him and music poured forth.
Hissing and whistling, he gave a rendition of the ”Hunters'
March.” I was looking at him and thinking how stupid and repulsive it all was, how ridiculous and at the same time frightening. If I had not been a s.p.a.ceman, if I had been frightened and run, he would almost certainly have killed me.
But n.o.body here knew I had been in s.p.a.ce. n.o.body. Not one person. Even Rimeyer didn't know.
”Get up,” I said.
He buzzed and started to dig the wall, and I turned around and went back. All the time while I was returning to my turn-off I could hear him rattling and clanging in the pile of contorted rails, hissing with the electrowelder and ranting nonsense in two voices.
The anti-atomic door was already open, and I stepped over the sill, swinging it shut behind me.
”Well, how was it?” asked round-head.
”Dumb,” I replied.
”I had no idea you were a s.p.a.ceman. You have worked out on the planets?”
”I have. But it's still dumb. For fools. For illiterate keyed-up b.o.o.bs.”
”What kind?”
”Keyed-up.”
”Well -- there you got it wrong. Lots of people like it.
Anyway, I told you to come at night. We don't have much amus.e.m.e.nt for singles.” He poured some whiskey and added some soda from the siphon. ”Would you like some?”
I took the gla.s.s and leaned on the railing. Eli gloomily regarded the screen, a cigarette sticking to his lip. On the screen careened s.h.i.+fting views of the glistening tunnel walls, twisted rails, black puddles, and flying sparks from the welder.
'That's not for me,” I announced. ”Let barbers and accountants enjoy it. Of course, I have nothing against them, but what I need is something the likes of which I have not seen in my entire life.”
”So you don't know yourself what you want,” said roundhead. ”It's a hard case. Excuse me, you aren't an Intel?”
”Why?”
”Well, don't take offense -- we are all equal before the grim reaper, you understand. What am I trying to say? That Intels are the most difficult clients, that's all. Isn't that right, Eli? If one of your barbers or bookkeepers comes here, he knows very well what it is he needs. He needs to get his blood going, to show off and be proud of himself, to get the girls squealing, and exhibit the punctures in his side. These fellows are simple, each one wants to consider himself a man.
After all, who is he -- our client? He has no particular capabilities, and he doesn't need any. In earlier times, I read in a book, people used to be envious of each other -- the neighbor is rolling in luxury and I can't save up for a refrigerator -- how could you put up with that? They hung on like bulldogs to all kinds of trash, to money, to cushy jobs -- they laid down their lives for such things. The guy with a foxier head or a stronger fist would wind up on top. But now life has become affluent and dull and there is a plenty of everything. What shall a man apply himself to? A man is not a fish, for all that, he is still a man and gets bored, but can't dream up something to do for himself. To do that you need special talents, you need to read a mountain of books, and how can he do that when they make him throw up. To become world-famous or to invent some new machine, that's something that wouldn't pop into his head, but even if it did, of what use would it be? n.o.body really needs you, not even your own wife and children if you examine it honestly. Right, Eli? And you don't need anybody either. Nowadays, it seems, clever people think things up for you, something new like these aerosols, or the s.h.i.+vers, or a new dance. There is that new drink -- it's called a polecat. Wanna me knock one together for you? So he downs some of this polecat, his eyes crawl out of their sockets, and he's happy. But as long as his eyes are in their sockets, life is just as dull as rainwater for him. There is an Intel that comes here to us, and every time he complains: Life, he says, is dull, my friends... but I leave here a new man; after, say, 'bullets' or 'twelve to one,' I see myself in a completely new light. Right, Eli? Everything becomes sweet all over again, food, drink, women.”
”Yes,” I said sympathetically. ”I understand you very well. But for me it's all too stale.”
”Slug is what he needs,” said Eli in his ba.s.s voice.
”What's that again?”
”Slug is what I said.”
Round-head puckered in distaste.
”Aw, come on, Eli. What's with you today?”
”I don't give a hoot for the likes of him,” said Eli. ”I just don't like these guys. Everything is insipid for him, nothing suits him.”
”Don't listen to him,” said round-head. ”He hasn't slept all night and is very tired.”
”Well, why not,” I contradicted. ”I am quite interested.
What is this slug?”
Round-head puckered his face again.
”It's not decent, you understand?” he said. ”Don't listen to Eli, he is a good enough guy, a simple fellow, but it's nothing for him to lambaste a man. It's a bad term. Certain types have taken to writing it all over the walls. Hooligans, that's what they are, right? The snot-noses hardly know what it's about, but they write anyway. See how we had to plane off the railing? Some son of a b.i.t.c.h carved into it, and if I catch him, I'll turn his hide inside out. We do have women coming here too.”
”Tell him,” p.r.o.nounced Eli, addressing himself to roundhead, ”that he should get hold of a slug and quiet down.
Let him find Buba...”
”Will you shut up, Eli?” said round-head, now angry.
”Don't pay any attention to him.”
Having heard the name Buba, I helped myself to another drink and settled more comfortably on the railing.
”What's it all about?” I said. ”Some kind of secret vice?”
”Secret!” boomed Eli, and let out an obscene horselaugh.