The Age of the Pussyfoot

Fifteen

What Forrester could not understand was why it was taking them so long to arrest him.

He began to see just why a criminal might give himself up. The waiting was hard to endure. Ten times an hour he reached for the joymaker to say, “I am the one who helped the Sirian escape. Report me to the police,” and ten times each hour he stopped himself. Not now, he said. Tomorrow, no doubt, or maybe even a few minutes from now; but not just now.

From time to time the joymaker informed him of messages—forty-five of them the first day alone. Forrester refused to accept them all. He didn’t want to see anyone until—until— Well, he didn’t want to see anyone at the moment. (He could not make up his mind at just what moment the world would so clarify itself to him that he would be willing to start living in it again; but he always knew that that time was certainly not yet.) He explored the resources of his apartment, the joymaker, and his own mind. He ate fantastic meals and drank odd foaming beverages that tasted like stale beer or celery-flavored malted milks. He listened to music and watched canned plays. He wished desperately for a deck of cards, but the joymaker did not seem to understand his description of them, and so solitaire was denied him; but he found almost the same anesthesia in reading and reading over again what scraps of written matter he had on hand. His late wife’s letter he practically memorized; his briefing manual for this century he studied until his fingers were weary from turning the pages.

On the second day there were nearly seventy messages. Forrester refused them all.

At his direction the joymaker displayed for him selected news pictures on the view-wall. The only subject Forrester would allow himself an interest in was the progress of the trouble with the Sirians. There was strangely little news after the first day— negative reports from drone patrols in every quadrant of the heavens, a diminishing flow of projections and estimates as to when an attack might be expected. The consensus seemed to be: not for several weeks at least. Forrester could not understand that at all. He remembered quite distinctly that Sirius was something like fifty light-years away, and the joymaker confirmed that no way had been found to exceed the speed of light. Finally he gathered that the Sirians were thought to have some sort of faster-than-light message capability, as did Earth for that matter; so that, even if the fleeing Sirian did not make it back to his own planet, he might send a message. And it was a possibility, at least, that some wandering Sirian war patrol might be near Sol.

But none made itself evident; and on the third day there were only a dozen messages for Forrester; and he refused them all.

What he did with most of his time was sleep.

He had ninety-three million dollars and perfect health. He could think of no better way to spend either of them.

“Joymaker! Tell me what I did wrong with Adne.”

“Wrong in what sense, Man Forrester? I have no record of antisocial acts.”

“Don’t split hairs with me. I mean, why didn’t she like me after the first few days?”

The joymaker began to answer with statements about hormone balances, imprinting, and the ineluctable components of emotions, but Forrester was having none of it. “Get me a beer,” he ordered, “and give me specific answers. You hear everything that happens, right?”

“Right, Man Forrester. Except when instructed otherwise.”

“All right. I offended her. How?”

“I cannot evaluate the magnitude of the offenses, Man Forrester, but I can list certain acts that would appear to be of greater significance than others. Item, you refused her offer of a reciprocal name.”

“That was bad?”

“It is offensive by social convention, Man Forrester, yes.” The glass of beer appeared by Forrester’s couch; he tasted it and made a face.

“No, not that,” he said. “What was that other thing, the beer with some kind of raspberry sauce?”

“Berlinerweisse, Man Forrester?”

“Yeah, get me one of those. Go on with the list.”

“Item, your actions when Man Heinzlichen Jura de Syrtis Major filed intent to kill you were considered contemptible in certain lights.”

“Didn’t she understand that I just wasn’t used to the way things go now?”

“Yes, Man Forrester, she did. Nevertheless, she considered your behavior contemptible. Item, you allowed yourself to become improverished. Item, you criticized her for a relationship with other males.”

The large goblet of pale beer appeared along with a little flask of dark red syrup; Forrester decanted the syrup into the beer and sipped it. It too tasted terrible, but he had run out of things to ask for and he drank it. “It was only that I loved her,” he said irritably.

“There are ineluctable aspects to the syndrome ‘love,’ which we cannot distinguish, Man Forrester.”

“Hell, I don’t expect you to. You’re a machine. But I thought Adne was a woman.”

“I can only surmise from the evidence of her responses that she did not comprehend or accept your behavior either, Man Forrester.”

“I have to admit you’ve got a point there,” sighed Forrester, putting down the goblet and getting up to roam around. “Well, never mind.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then waved a hand; a mirror appeared, and he studied his face in it. He looked like a bum. Hair unkempt, beard beginning to grow again. “Oh, hell,” he said.

The joymaker made no answer.

What Forrester really wanted to know—whether anyone had come to suspect him of being the one who had let the Sirian escape—he dared not ask. The questions he did ask, on the other hand, turned out to have answers as confusing as the questions were. Even simple questions. He had asked after his friend among the Forgotten Men, Jerry Whitlow, for example. He had not been surprised to find out that Whitlow was dead—he had seen that happen; or to learn that his revival was problematical; but he still did not know what the joymaker meant by saying that Whitlow was “returned to reserve.” It seemed to mean that Whitlow’s body had been used as raw material, perhaps in one of the organic lakes like the “Sea of Soup,” from which the world’s food supplies came; but Forrester was too repelled by that notion to follow it any further, and even so he could not understand why Whitlow’s revival would then be “problematical.”

“How many messages today, joymaker?” he asked idly.

“There are no messages for you today, Man Forrester.”

Forrester turned to look at the thing. That was a welcome surprise—any change was welcome—but it was worrisome, too. Had everyone forgotten him?

“No messages?”

“None that you have not already refused, Man Forrester.”

“Doesn’t anyone want to talk to me?”

“As far as indicated by the message log, Man Forrester, only Man Hironibi wishes to talk to you. He left special instructions in regard to forwarding of communications. But that was six days ago.”

Forrester was startled. “How the devil long have I been here?”

“Nineteen days, Man Forrester.”

He took a deep breath.

Nineteen days! How little his so-called friends cared for him! he told himself with self-pity. If they really liked him they would have broken the door down, if necessary.

But it was not all bad. Nineteen days? But surely, if he were going to be arrested for helping the Sirian escape, it would not have taken this long. Was it safe to assume the heat was off? Did he dare go back into the world of men?

He made up his mind rapidly and, before he could change it, acted at once. “Joymaker! Get me cleaned up. Shave, bath, new clothes. I’m going outside!”

His resolve lasted him through the cleaning-up process and into the condominium hall, but then it began to dissipate.

No one was in the hall; there were no sounds. But to Forrester it seemed like a jungle trail with unknown dangers on every side. He ordered an elevator cab to take him to slideway level, and when the door opened he entered it cautiously, as though an enemy might be lurking inside.

But it too was empty. And so—he found a moment later—was the wide hoverway. There was simply nothing there.

Forrester stared around, unable to believe what he saw. No pedestrians—well, that was understandable. There were seldom very many, and he had no idea what time of day it was. No hovercraft? That was harder to accept. Even if for a moment none were in sight, he should be able to hear the hissing roar of their passage somewhere in the city. But to see no aircraft, no sign of life at all—that was flatly unbelievable.

Where was everybody?

He said, with a quaver in his voice, “Get me a cab.”

“One will arrive in two minutes, Man Forrester.” And it did—a standard automated aircab; and Forrester still had not seen a human being. He climbed in quickly, closed the door, and ordered it to take him up—not up to any place in particular, just up, so that he could see farther in all directions.

But no matter how far he looked, no one was there. Words forced themselves out. “Joymaker! What’s happened?”

“In what respect, Man Forrester?” the machine benignly asked.

“Where did everybody go? Adne? The kids?”

“Adne Bensen and her children, Man Forrester, at present are being processed for storage in Sublake Emergency Facility Nine. However, it is not as yet known whether space will be available for them there on a permanent basis, and so the location must be considered tentative pending the completion of additional facilities—”

“You mean they’re dead?”

“Clinically dead, Man Forrester. Yes.”

“How about—” Forrester cast about in his mind— “let’s see, that Martian. Not Heinzie, the one with the Irish name, Kevin O’Rourke; is he dead, too?”

“Yes, Man Forrester.”

“And the Italian ballerina I met at the restaurant where the Forgotten Men hung out?”

“Also dead, Man Forrester.”

“What the hell happened?” he shouted.

The joymaker replied carefully, “Speaking objectively, Man Forrester, there has been an unforecast increase in the number of commitments to freezing facilities. More than ninety-eight point one percent of the human race is now in cryogenic storage. In subjective terms, the causes are not well established but appear to relate to the probability of invasion by extra-Solarian living creatures, probably Sirian.”

“You mean everybody committed suicide?”

“No, Man Forrester. Many preferred to be killed by others; for example, Man Heinzlichen Jura de Syrtis Major. He, you will recall, elected to be killed by you.”

Forrester sank back against the seat. “Holy sweet heaven,” he muttered to himself. Dead! Nearly the whole human race, dead! It was more than he could take in at once. He sat staring into space until the joymaker said apologetically, “Man Forrester, do you wish to select a destination?”

“No—wait a minute, yes! Maybe I do. You said ninety-eight percent of the human race is dead.”

“Ninety-eight point one, yes, Man Forrester.”

“But that means there are some who are still alive, right? Are there any I know?”

“Yes, Man Forrester. Certain classes are still in vital state in large proportion because of special requests made for their services—e.g., medical specialists working in the freezer stations. Also, there are others. One you know is Man Hironibi. He is not only in vital state but has, as you know, given special instructions in regard to receiving messages from you.”

“Fine!” cried Forrester. “Just take me to Taiko, right away! I want to see someone who’s alive!”

Because—went the unspoken corollary—he didn’t want to see the ruins left by the dead. Not as long as he was so completely convinced that it was he himself who had killed them.