A Reasonable World

32

Abraham Oberndorf, who was forty years old and had a gray-and-black beard, was a horticulturist who spent his evenings as a user interface for Hamilton Steel. The mill and shops were in the Plains, but Oberndorf and his wife lived in the Northwest Maritime, where they preferred the landscape. One evening in 2030 when Oberndorf walked into his study overlooking the McKenzie River, the computer said, “Quite a lot of calls, Abe.”

“Anything urgent?”

“They’re all urgent.”

“On line?”

“Three.”

Oberndorf sat down at his desk and sighed theatrically. “Okay, let’s have the first one.”

The head and shoulders of a middle-aged woman appeared in the holo. “Mr. Oberndorf, my name is Dora Wallace, I’m the supply manager of the Ringgold Design Group in Macon.”

“Yes, Ms. Wallace?”

“We need a supplier for a hundred metric tons of carbon steel next year, and more later. We understand you’re one of the best.”

“Ms. Wallace, that’s flattering, but we get requests like this every day. All we can do is try to decide on the basis of what you tell us whether the sky will fall if you don’t get the steel you want. Okay? So tell me what’s so important about this project.”

“Do you want a formal proposal? We’re a small outfit, and we’ve always got metals from a jobber before.”

“No, it doesn’t have to be formal. Just tell me.”

Wallace seemed to squirm. “Well, can this be confidential?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, well, for the last seven years we’ve been developing and testing an all-terrain walking vehicle, and we’re almost ready to go into production. Okay to give you some plans?”

“Sure.”

A stack of papers thumped into the receiver. Oberndorf did not look at them. “How many units a year?”

“The first year, we hope to do five thousand. Then, depending on demand—”

“Okay, so this is basically a fun thing?”

“Yes, basically. It can go places a wheeled vehicle can’t, and it doesn’t degrade the environment the way wheels or tracks do.”

“Hm.” Oberndorf tapped a stylus on his desk. “Let me tell you the problem I see. We don’t allocate any production for AT vehicles for just the reason you mentioned, they tear up the landscape. We can’t stop other people from doing it, but many suppliers feel the same way, and there are a lot of local covenants, as you probably know. Well, suppose we decide to support your project. I’ll take your word that your gadget causes less damage than wheels, but any vehicle causes some damage. So we might be looking at a net increase in destruction because people’s resistance to these machines would be less and therefore there would be more of them out there. And also you’d be damaging parts of the terrain that wheeled vehicles can’t get to.”

“Actually, small sharp feet like ours are good for turf because instead of pressing it down, they break the surface and let moisture in. Remember the buffalo.”

“Okay, I’m not an expert, but I see what you’re saying. Have you had anybody look at it from that standpoint?”

“Yes, a couple of people. One of them is Marlene Eisenwein of Cornell. Her report is in that stack, if you want to read it. Another thing, about going places a wheeled vehicle can’t—if somebody is injured, we can get to them and bring them out without using a helicopter.”

“That’s a good wrinkle. All right, Ms. Wallace, I’ll study this material and get back to you.”

Somehow the world kept turning. Young people were taught about the money society, and about wars and guns and bombs, just as they were taught about communism and the church. There was a Gun Museum in Dallas. In it could be found specimens of every major firearm ever manufactured: rifles, derringers, revolvers, automatics, machine guns; school children on tours looked at them wide-eyed. “But why did they want to kill people?” they asked, and the grownups could not explain.

Among people born after 2030, no one could remember a world in which people starved to death or were homeless or in misery. Everyone took it for granted that when they had finished their education.they would find congenial work. They traveled over the whole earth, healthy and optimistic. Some liked one climate, some another. They met, fell in love, married or didn’t marry; the usual size of their families was three. Year after year, the population gently declined. There was ample room, enough for everyone. The past seemed to them like a long darkness.

In the summer of 2080 one of Kim’s great-grandchildren, a young woman named Mary Beth Slater, was climbing a mountain slope. Her walker’s six red-painted legs dipped up and down three at a time; the feet scrabbled for purchase on the stream pebbles, put down claws; then the other three lifted, shedding bright water. Sunlight was a weight on Mary Beth’s head and shoulders. The walker’s body lurched back and forth just enough to keep her awake. Up the stream was the easiest route; the walker was too broad for most trails. Had to watch out for fisherfolk, though. There was one now up at the end of the next reach, a man, looked like, with waders and a funny hat, casting a white arc of line. She saw his head turn and could imagine his expression. No problem. “Left,” she told the walker. It turned obediently. “Climb.” It pawed at the bank, found purchase, lifted. One foot, two foots, three, up and over. Good walker. It lurched through slippery weeds, always a tripod. The streamside legs extended, the others retracted; it kept her roughly level but waved her back and forth a lot. On the whole she would rather be walking. No use thinking about that.

She passed the fisherman and raised her hand. He stared back without response. When he was out of sight, she steered the walker down into the stream again.

By dinnertime she was high in the Cascades and the evergreens were thinning. She dipped a bucket into the water, then climbed out on a meadow spangled with lupines, put her leg braces on, inflated her tent, made a fire. She was all alone in the circle made by the tips of mountains. The sky was very far away.

When the sun went down behind a peak, it was like being submerged in dark cold water. She watched the flag of the snapping flames, smelled the woodsmoke and the stew somehow not fighting each other. The first stars came out.

“Hello there!” called a male voice. It came from downslope; she couldn’t see anyone. “Hello!” she called back.

Now she saw two shapes, men with backpacks, emerging from the pooled darkness. “All alone?” said the voice. She didn’t reply.

When they came into the firelight, she saw they were both in their thirties, beard-stubbled and bright-eyed. “My name’s Jim,” said one. “This is my buddy, Chuck. We didn’t expect to find nobody up here.”

“Mary Beth,” she said. “You like to sit down and have some stew?”

They took their backpacks off and squatted. “Don’t want to rob you,” said Chuck.

“I’ll put some more on,” she said.

Both men kept glancing at her as they ate. “Something wrong with your legs, huh,” said Jim. He chewed and swallowed. “Rest of you is okay,” he added.

Chuck grinned. “Sure is.”

Mary Beth kept her voice neutral. “Where you guys from?”

“Newark,” said Jim with his mouth full. He wiped his fingers on his red checked shirt. The nails had black crescents under them. “Good walking here. That gadget do it for you?”

“It does okay.”

“Listen,” said Jim, moving closer. “Is there room for two in that tent?”

“There is, but not for you.”

“Don’t be that way.” He put his hand toward her and she blocked it.

“I’m just not interested. Go on now and get out of here, both of you.”

They looked disappointed. “Serious?” asked Jim.

“Serious. No hard feelings?”

“No.”

They stood up slowly and put on their packs. “Well, thanks for the stew,” said Jim. As they walked away, he turned and looked back over his shoulder. “Too bad,” he said. “You sure are one sweet little piece of ass.”

Then they were out of the firelight, only dim bulks moving against the mountainside. She heard their voices awhile; then they were gone. She took a deep breath and relaxed; life was good. And the stars were still there.