Sidney's Comet (27 page)

Religious books in this section,
he thought, closing a black leatherbound volume.
Buddhaic-Brahmanism, Judaism, Islamic-Taoism . . . all religions destroyed in the Holy War of twenty-three-twenty-six.

He replaced the volume on the shelf, moved to another section and reached for a slender paperbound book, entitled
Franklin Roosevelt and the W.P.A.
As he opened it, a slip of white paper fell put upon his lap. Master Edward retrieved the paper and read these notes penned neatly in Uncle Rosy’s handwriting:

The Great Order of Existence
1. Realm of the Unknown. God?
2. Realm of Magic.
3. Realm of Inertia and Gas.
4. Realm of Flesh.
5. Realm of Plants and Lower Life Forms.

At the bottom of the slip of paper, scrawled hastily, he read: “From voices in my brain, August 26, 2605. The voices returned two days later to say, ‘The answer is not to be found within books. Important truths flow from the soul, like a primordial river.’”

He wrote this only days ago!
Master Edward thought.
Voices? Munoz and Malloy heard voices too
—
insanity! But all of them? Even Uncle Rosy?
He wadded the paper and hurled it, followed by the book, at a tuxedo meckie which stood motionless nearby.

“Yes, Master?” the meckie responded as the book thudded off its metal front. The meckie’s lights blinked. “You desire something, Master?” To Master Edward’s ears at that moment, the meckie’s synthetically sophisticated voice sounded particularly irritating and inane.

Master Edward grunted something angry and guttural which was not intended to be discernible, then moto-shoed into the bathroom module. There, for the third time that afternoon, he glared dejectedly at the reflection of his face in the grooming machine mirror.

The aging had accelerated today, and now a grotesque mask looked back at him, its expression more sad than angry. Frustration and guilt were etched into the features, and he saw deep lines around the eyes, with shallower lines on the cheeks, on the forehead and around the neck. The backs of his hands had dark brown age splotches. The skin looked taut, drawn.

He smashed both hands against the mirror, watched spokes from a break in the glass spread across the mirror. A trickle of blood ran down the side of one hand, and he wiped it on his white robe.

I feel so damned guilty! he
thought.
To have destroyed a great man, and now
. . . Tears streamed down Master Edward’s cheeks, running over his upper lip and into his mouth. He tested salt.

Master Edward wiped his eyes and mouth with a hand towel, thought,
How can I step into the Master’s moto-shoes? I am not as wise or as strong as he
. . .

Master Edward let the towel slip out of his grasp. It fell into the sink as he thought,
If only I could erase all memory of losing my faith, of killing Uncle Rosy and of the holy water source . . . the meckies could pay the water bill without my knowledge. . . .

This thought started as a fantasy to him, but then something hit him with no less force than a Bu-Tech thunderbolt.
S.M.E.!
he thought, recalling the Selective Memory Erasure procedure. . . . Master Edward was yelling before he reached the living room module: “WHERE IS THE S.M.E. TERMINAL? WHERE IS THE S.M.E. TERMINAL?”

A tuxedo meckie blinked on its button lights as Master Edward roared into the room. “S.M.E. terminal, Master?” it said. “What is that?”

“Don’t hold back on me, you little pile of gears!”

“Master, I know not of what you speak.”

“Get the others, then!”

“The others, Master?”

“The other tuxedo meckies, you programmed fool! Get them!”

The meckie rolled out through the suite’s main entrance, returned presently with two of its mechanical look-alikes. They formed a row on one side of the living room module, blinking busily. “Yes, Master?” they said in unison in their sophisticated, synthetic voices.

“Which of you took Onesayer’s body?” Master Edward asked.

“I, Master,” the centrally positioned meckie replied.

“And where is it now?”

“It, Master?”

Master Edward clenched his teeth, made fists. “The body, damn you! The body!”

“Onesayer’s body, Master?”

“Yes, yes. Yes-yes-yes!”

“Onesayer’s body was launched an hour ago, Master.”

“Good.” Master Edward unclenched his fists, relaxed his hands at his sides. “Now each of you pay close attention. I am looking for the S.M.E. terminal . . . the Selective Memory Erasure terminal.”

“I do not know where the S.M.E. terminal is,” they replied in unison.

“Why is the terminal not here?”

The meckies spoke at once, creating a jibberished sentence: “I do I not ordered know the terminal, Master.”

“What?” Master Edward said.

The meckies repeated their jibberish.

“One at a time,” Master Edward said, pointing to the centrally positioned tuxedo meckie. “You first.”

“I do not know, Master,” this meckie said.

“Now you.” Master Edward pointed to the meckie on his left.

“I ordered the terminal, Master.”

“Aha! Now we are getting somewhere!” Master Edward rolled very close to this meckie and demanded: “Where is it . . . uh, the terminal?”

“The terminal is on order, Master.”

“Yes, but where is . . . Let me rephrase that. When did you order the terminal?”

“Thirty-one months ago.”

“And why has the terminal not arrived?”

“This is a special order item, Master. One of a kind.”

“Yes, but is it not important enough to rush through?”

“You have never said this in the past, Master. We have only made eleven requests so far. The Twelfth through Twentieth Request Departments have not been involved yet.”

Master Edward took a deep, furious breath, put his hands on his hips and shot words at the meckie as if the words were bullets: “Send a request to all of the departments at once! Did that ever occur to you?’

“That has never been done before,” the meckie said calmly. “Therefore it does not seem possible, Master.”

Master Edward threw his arms up in exasperation and thundered: “LEAVE ME! LEAVE ME IMMEDIATELY. ALL OF YOU!”

The tuxedo meckies turned and scurried to the main doorway, but tried to exit simultaneously. The one in the center scraped through, but the other two bounced off the doorjambs on each side. This knocked something loose in their mechanisms, and the damaged meckies began to roll in circles, emitting high-pitched, whining sounds.

“Quiet!” Master Edward screeched, looking for something to throw.

The damaged meckies collided with one another head-on, tipped and fell to their sides. For several moments the whining continued, along with the whir and clank of gears. Finally the death knell ceased, and Master Edward stared at their fallen metal bodies. A moto-wheel on one meckie continued to roll silently for several seconds, but under his intense gaze this too came to a stop.

Master Edward looked around the room . . . at the simu-life painting, at the books, at the digital cuckoo, then back to the motionless tin can servants. All were silent. He felt alone, very much alone.

A half hour later, Master Edward looked up with one sleepy eye from the living room couch where he lay, saw the surviving tuxedo meckie standing in the doorway. In a voice devoid of emotion, the meckie said, “Master, it is time for the afternoon audience.”

Master Edward scratched the back of one hand, said, “Cancel it!”

“But they ask of Onesayer, Master. What shall I tell them?”

“Tell them nothing.”

“They wish to know when you will announce Onesayer’s replacement.”

Master Edward rose to rest on one elbow, glared. “You told them he is dead?”

“No, Master. They assumed it.”

“How dare they demand this information? I will notify them when . . . and IF . . . there are to be promotions!”

“Yes, Master. They also say Earth’s orbital speed is up twelve-point-five percent, and that—”

“I know that,” Master Edward said angrily. “Who do they think did it?”

Continuing where its sentence had been interrupted, the meckie said, “—the comet changed course to match our adjustment.”

Master Edward sat up, startled. “It remains on a collision course with Earth?”

“It does, Master.”

“I feared as much! Go out and set the Orbital Handle at a one-point-five-three-seven factor.”
The maximum,
he thought.
Any more and our solar system falls apart
. . . .

“I will, Master.”

“Then tell Twosayer and Threesayer I will see them promptly at nine A.M. tomorrow.”

“I will, Master.”

Master Edward recalled his training in the physics of orbital modification as he watched the tuxedo meckie roll away. He thought back to a more pleasant time many years before when he had stood at the tutelage console with Sayer Superior Lin-Ti. . . .

Youngsayer Edward: “But what of the laws of physics, Sayer Superior? Will not the Orbital Handle cause havoc with the Moon and with the AmFed orbiters?”

Sayer Superior Lin-Ti: “No, youngsayer. The Orbital Handle’s force field extends to the Moon and to the orbital positions at L
₄
and at L
₅
. The system will make adjustments as a unit.”

Youngsayer Edward: “Are there limits? Surely we cannot make radical adjustments without affecting other planetary systems!”

Sayer Superior Lin-Ti (laughing): “Be patient, youngsayer! You will learn such things in time. . . . ”

Working at deck level Wednesday afternoon in the forward E-Cell area of Mass Driver One, Sidney gave the Argonium gas handle a final spin. Workmen were busy all around. Their voices and the clanging ring of tools echoed off the walls.

“Now hand me the stitch-welder,” another client workman instructed.

Sidney looked at the workman as he spoke, saw a young fleshy-faced man without apparent debility, his goggles pushed up out of the way over his forehead.

Sidney lifted the tubular brass stitch-welder, passed it to the other man. As Sidney bent over, a bolt of pain shot through his ribcage and his temple throbbed. These were the places Mayor Nancy Ogg had kicked him.

The man smiled slowly and guardedly, seeming to stare at the white bandage on Sidney’s left temple. “You’re learning fast,” the man said.

“I’ve always had an interest in space mechanics,” Sidney said. ‘It’s been a hobby with me since I was a kid.”

Sidney had helped the man build two compartments since noon, but still did not know his name. Sidney recalled introducing himself earlier, but the man had simply grunted something in return.

Sidney flipped protective goggles over his own eyes, lifted a feather-light compartment assembly from the deck. He held it in place abutting the forward firewall next to the compartment they had just completed.

The man flipped his goggles down and began to stitch-weld the assemblies together. Sidney watched as the zig-zag weld took shape, then glanced back at the center of the mass driver shell, where Mayor Nancy Ogg and her security sergeant stood speaking with a strange-looking short-haired woman.

I suppose its a woman,
Sidney thought, noting a faint breast line. The woman was short, had a weak chin and a bulbous nose. Her hands were thrust deeply into the pockets of a loose-fitting white-and-silver dress. The expression was chilly, unsmiling.

“Okay,” the man with the stitch-welder said. “It’ll hold now.”

Sidney let go, glanced through a hatch in the forward firewall where two men in green-and-gold space mechanic’s coveralls were rolling aft. They passed a maze of grey tubes at the base of the mass driver engine, rolled by Sidney. “Did you lock the Shamrock Five entry hatch?” the taller of the men asked.

“Huh?” the other man said. “Yeah, I guess.” To Sidney, the tone seemed disinterested.

The Shamrock Five!
Sidney thought.
That’s my ship!

Sidney watched them roll aft down the center of the mass driver shell and recalled his arrival on Saint Elba less than two nights earlier. It seemed like a month before when he had peered through a porthole in the IOTV to watch the Shamrock Five dock.

Sidney pictured the sleek black and silver cruiser in his mind’s eye.
Its nearby
. . .
and the hatch may be unlocked!
he thought, feeling his pulse quicken.

Impulsively, Sidney flipped off his goggles and moto-darted through the firewall hatch. He pressed himself against the firewall on the other side, breathing hard.
Don’t stop now,
he thought, touching the bandaged bump at his temple.
You’re disposable anyway. . . .

He looked up. The mass driver engine towered like a government office building, except it had tubes, valves and ramps. Sidney’s heart skipped a beat: a Security Brigade guard on a lower ramp had just spotted him!

“You!” the guard bellowed. “What are you doing in here?”

Sidney took off before the guard finished his question, sped around the base of the engine. He saw the Shamrock Five now through two glassplex portholes in the mass driver’s forward-most wall.
There!
he thought, seeing a hatch between the portholes.
The hatch!

He heard guards yelling from above and behind. “WHERE DID HE GO?” one asked.

“FORWARD!”

“THERE HE IS!”

“GET HIM!”

Sidney was at the hatch, expecting to feel the searing pain of bullets at any moment.
Will it open?
he thought. He mentoed the door, held his breath as he listened to tumblers rolling inside the door. He looked back, saw three guards speeding toward him.

“Pttting!” A bullet ricocheted off the wall near his head.

The door slid open!

Sidney rolled through quickly, mentoed the door shut. A red handle inside on the wall at one side had a sign below it which read: “
DOUBLE LOCK—No Access From Rear
.”

He threw the handle down, looked forward.

Sidney stood on a short glassplex-sealed gangway, could barely see in the low light from one underfoot light panel. He heard distant, angry voices and pounding on the other side of the hatch. Another hatch was forward, and he rolled to it quickly.