Tomorrow’s World

Chapter 2

Dino Pelazi’s offices were on the twelfth level, and were it not for the fluorescent lighting and the air conditioning, they would have been dark and barely habitable.

With the conveniences, they were pleasant if not exactly luxurious. He stood by the window now, looking out at the ribbons of concrete that stretched between the buildings, criss-crossing in a wild medley of apparent misdirection. The sun glinted off the speeding, metallic cars of the pneumotubes, glistening like huge tear-drops in their transparent cylinders. The sky beyond the city was wide and blue, and the sun squatted on it like a contented Indian on a flawlessly woven blanket. His eyes lifted to the sky, followed the endless pattern of a jet plane trailing an advertising slogan across the unmarred blue.

S...M...O...

His mind leaped ahead. Smoke Randel’s — Tasty — Toasted — Boasted About...

The slogan pushed his subconscious; he walked nervously to his leather-topped desk, nudged the lid from a cigarette box, and speared a thin white cylinder. He placed it between his lips, lit it, and then walked back to the window.

He watched the meanderings of the jet a while longer, pleased when the pilot missed crossing the second “t” in toasted. He watched until the jet streaked back for the tailless letter, and then went back to his desk and snubbed out the cigarette.

His hand darted to the intercom speaker, and he pushed down a lever.

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss Dvorak,” he asked, “wasn’t that appointment for ten o’clock?”

“Yes, Mr. Pelazi. Mr. O’Donnell is here now, sir.”

“And the rest?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“All right, show O’Donnell in.”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers idly stroking the black spade-beard that covered his chin. He wondered how O’Donnell would react to his idea. Probably violently. O’Donnell was a stiff-necked turtle if ever there was one, as bad in his own way as the worst Vicarion. The door slid open abruptly, and Miss Dvorak entered. She wore a loose business suit, buttoned to beneath her chin. A frill of lace protruded from above the collar of the suit, and her flat-soled shoes slapped against the bare wooden floor of the office.

“Mr. O’Donnell, sir,” she announced.

Sean O’Donnell stepped into the room behind her. He bobbed his head in thanks and then walked toward the desk. Miss Dvorak closed the door manually, and O’Donnell extended a large, square hand.

“Dino! Good to see you again.”

“Come in, Sean. Have a seat.”

O’Donnell nodded affably, the hang of his fleshy chin touching the high, stiff edge of his collar. “Something big on your mind, Dino?” He sat quickly, making himself comfortable.

“Yes,” Pelazi said. “I think so.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. O’Donnell’s fingers crawled to the knot of his tie, straightened it, and then slithered down the coarse front of his jacket to rest like a sand crab in his lap.

“I saw the review you gave the new Vike paback,” he said. “You really devastated it.”

“You really think so, do you?” Pelazi fastened studious brown eyes on O’Donnell’s face, and O’Donnell wriggled uncomfortably.

“Well... yes. Yes, I do. I mean, you... you hit it quite hard. Quite hard.”

“Not hard enough,” Pelazi said. “That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss.” He glanced at his wrist chronometer. “The others should be here soon.”

He lifted the lid of the cigarette box, took out a smoke and put it between his lips. “Cigarette, Sean?”

O’Donnell’s eyes widened slightly. “I... I didn’t know you smoked, Dino. I mean...”

“Smoking is the least of the Vicarion Movement’s vices. You, my friend, are an ultra-Realist. Your habit, supreme realism, is as bad as the drug habit of a Vicarion.”

“Now see here, Dino...”

“Shut up, Sean. Your life is your own. I take it you won’t retch if I have a smoke?”

“Not at all. That is...”

“Thank you.” Pelazi lighted the cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I happen to feel that a Realist is also entitled to a little relaxation. Besides, I’ve been doing a good deal of thinking on this whole setup. I think I’ve found the answer; that’s what I wanted to discuss with you and the others.”

O’Donnell leaned forward like an anxious cocker spaniel. “An answer, Dino? You mean... an answer to the Vikes?”

Pelazi sighed in exasperation. “No, I mean an answer to the uncurbed dog problem.”

“No need for sarcasm, Dino. I was just...”

“I’m sorry, Sean; I’m a little on edge. What I’ve stumbled on is so fantastically simple that I’ve been persecuting myself for not having thought of it sooner.”

“And you think...”

The buzzer on Pelazi’s desk sounded, and O’Donnell swallowed his own voice and shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Corona and Mr. Schultz are here, sir.”

“Ask them to come in, please. And bring in your pad, Miss Dvorak. I’ll want you to take all this down.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pelazi nodded briefly and rubbed his hands together. He stood, walked to the window, and watched the dissipating cigarette slogan, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor.

“Well! Dino, Sean!” a voice from the door boomed. “By God, you’re both getting fat!”

Pelazi turned to take the hand of Herman Schultz. Schultz was short and squat, with a round, open face, and guileless blue eyes. A gold watch chain stretched across the straining front of his vest. Pelazi reflected that he was hardly the person to be bandying corpulency about.

“Have a seat, Herman,” Pelazi said. He extended his hand to Corona. “Al, you too.”

Corona shook Pelazi’s hand firmly. “Hello, Dino,” he said in a soft voice. “I understand you’ve something important to discuss.”

“Yes, yes,” Pelazi answered. He liked Corona. He had often wondered if this was because of the attorney’s Italian background, so much like his own. He had put this aside when he’d tallied Corona’s obvious virtues: his mild manner, his shrewd intelligence, his quick wit. And he was thin. Unconsciously, Pelazi favored lean people, attributing them with the same restless energy he possessed — though this was not always the case.

“Smoke, anyone? Drink?” Pelazi asked. He was beginning to feel excited.

Schultz and O’Donnell exchanged glances.

“Didn’t know you were going Vike, Dino,” Schultz said guardedly.

“Don’t be an egghead, Herman,” Pelazi said angrily. He passed his hand over his snow-white mane of hair. “More Rees smoke and drink than you can count on your...”

“Do you want me to take all this down, sir?” Miss Dvorak interrupted.

“No. Yes. I don’t care. Yes, you’d better.”

“I’ll have a drink, Dino,” Corona said. “If no one else minds.”

Good old Al, Pelazi thought. Good old true-blue Al. I don’t know what I’d do without you, friend.

“Rye? Scotch? I’m all out of gin, Al.”

“Rye is fine. Straight, please.”

“I really don’t feel this should be encouraged, Dino,” Schultz said. “If it should get out that one of the leaders of the Realist...”

“It won’t get out,” Pelazi snapped. “And if it does, the hell with it. We’re not going to crack the Vikes by pretending we’re robots.”

“But drinking,” O’Donnell protested. “After all, Dino, let’s be sensible.”

“Do you know the latest figures on all this, Sean?”

“On all what?”

“On alcohol consumption in Realist homes?”

O’Donnell cleared his throat. “Well, no; I can’t say that I do.”

Pelazi moved to the bar, quickly poured a good three fingers of rye into a water tumbler. “Then let me enlighten you. I haven’t exactly been sitting in my rocker, you know. There’s been plenty wrong with our whole approach to the Vikes, and I decided that the best way to find out just what, would be to find out what was wrong with the Rees first.” He walked to Corona, handed him the glass. Corona nodded in thanks.

“Twenty-three percent of the Realist population,” Pelazi said, “have never tasted alcohol.”

Schultz nodded his approval, letting the group know he was one of that twenty-three percent.

“Thirty-seven point seven percent drink socially,” Pelazi went on. “That means a drink or two at parties, gatherings, on the way home, what-have-you.”

“I had no idea it was so prevalent,” O’Donnell said.

“Then you’d better get a good grip on your chair. Because the rest of the Ree population — some thirty-nine point three percent — are what can be considered habitual alcoholics.”

“What!” Schultz exploded. “That’s nonsense, sheer nonsense. By God, Dino, if you’re joking...”

“I’m not joking, Herman. These are facts, cold, hard facts. Do you want to look over the figures yourself?”

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” Schultz said quickly. He cleared his throat and smoothed the front of his vest.

“Perhaps you’d rather I didn’t touch this,” Corona said, indicating the whiskey.

“Drink, drink,” Schultz said irritably.

“I didn’t bring this up to justify Al’s glass of rye,” Pelazi added. “This is all part of what I’ve been thinking, and all part of what led to my scheme. I’ve discovered, for example, that seventy-four percent of the Ree population are heavy smokers. As a matter of fact, most cigarette purchases are made by Rees — and not by Vikes, as you would suppose.”

“Are you sure these figures are accurate, Dino?”

“International Statistics, Incorporated,” Pelazi said.

“That’s a Vike outfit.”

“What difference does it make? Can you think of a comparable Ree outfit that could give as accurate a report?”

“I suppose not.”

“All right, then. Here’s the worst part. I’ve learned that approximately four percent of all paperback purchases are made by Rees. That’s a gain of three point four over last year’s statistics. The same rough increase applies to tri-dim and stereoshow attendance. Luckily, it hasn’t spread to the sensory medium — as yet.” Pelazi paused. “Given time, it will.”

Corona sipped at his rye. “You mean, Dino, that we’re losing.”

“We’re not only losing, we’re losing fast. Unless we do something and do it soon, we’ll have lost.”

“I can’t believe it,” Schultz said.

“These are facts,” Pelazi insisted. “They made me start thinking about our means of combatting the Vikes: Bad reviews of the paperbacks, speeches, pamphlets. That is like a fly gnawing an elephant’s tail, and just about as effective. There was a time when the Vicarion Movement was the upstart group, when a speech or a bad review was a real blow. That time has passed. The Vikes are now the power; the Realists are the ‘movement.’ ”

The room was silent for a moment. Miss Dvorak looked up from her pad expectantly.

“Figure it out for yourself,” Pelazi said. “The Vikes control every propaganda outlet in the nation. They’ve got the entertainment industry in the palm of their hands. The publishing business is theirs. They control most of the press, and the news outlets. Luckily, the public and private communicators are government-owned or we’d never get to air an opinion. The advertising field is in their back pocket, and they’ve got money. Tons of the stuff. Money.”

“We know all this, Dino,” Schultz said. His voice was oddly gruff.

“Sure, we know it. We’ve known it for a long time, but we’ve deliberately closed our eyes to it. We’ve talked ourselves into thinking that the Vikes were a passing fad. Well, they’re not so passing. They’re damned permanent — or at least they will be, unless we wake up fast.”

“Who could have imagined...” O’Donnell started.

“You’re right, Sean, who could have? Who could have ever in a lifetime imagined that their stupid ideas would catch on? When a man says that eating is a savage thing, an animal act to be practiced in private, to be ashamed of, to be shielded from other eyes, who could have imagined? You’d call him insane; you’d say he should be put away. But how many Vikes are there now? And how many people are there who believe just that? How many won’t put a morsel of food into their mouths if anyone is within ten miles of them? How many? You count them.”

“Dino...”

“And sex? How many people feel that...”

“That was the start of it,” Schultz said, nodding his head vigorously. “It all started with that. Goddamnit, it all started with that. If we’d have...”

“There’s no sense going back to the beginning, Herman. That was a long, long time ago. It would have taken a prophet to forecast the present situation. And unfortunately when the Vikes were first gaining strength, there was no prophet around.”

“I said we should have taken them more seriously,” O’Donnell said. “I said that from the very start. Right when the eating business first popped up.”

“I said it, too,” Corona almost whispered. “But we didn’t do anything about it.”

“And now we’re ruined!” Schultz screamed. “Now they’re running everything, and decency had just gone down the drain!”

“Not yet!” Pelazi snapped. “Not yet, my friend.”

“Yes, yes,” Schultz insisted. “You know it as well as I do, Dino; there’s no beating them now.”

“Not the way we’ve been fighting them, no. But there is another way.”

“I don’t know if I care any more,” O’Donnell said. “You see people degenerating all around you, and you begin to wonder if you’re not the one who’s insane. Everybody’s out of step but Johnny.” He shook his head, and his crab-hands worked nervously in his lap.

“But we are,” Pelazi said, a thin smile on his face.

“We are what?”

“Out of step.”

Schultz and O’Donnell said nothing. They stared disconsolately at the floor.

“I think I know what you mean, Dino,” Corona said. He took a healthy swig of rye, swallowed it instantly.

“There’s no way,” Schultz said. “Let’s admit it.”

“But there is a way,” Pelazi answered.

“No, No.”

A heavy silence shouldered its way into the room.

Corona was the first to speak. “Dino’s right.”

“So what do we do about it? What’s the way?”

“What’s your plan, Dino?”

“My plan is so damned simple, it’s ridiculous. But if it works, the Vikes will be shattered within a year. If it works.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“If it doesn’t, you’d better buy yourself a tin of heroin and a hypodermic needle, because that’s the way things are going to be from then on.”

There was another silence. O’Donnell’s fingers worked nervously on his tie. Schultz coughed.

“Let’s hear it,” Corona said softly.

The musichron turned itself on at 1030; wafting a new Vike tape into the room. The sax section murmured whisperingly, soft reeds vibrating. Deborah Dean did not stir.

Her golden-red hair was spread out on the pillow in a shimmering fan. The blinds were tilted upward, casting sunlight away from the bed, reflecting it harmlessly. The chron persisted, saxaphones giving way to the deep rumble of a bass piano. The piano modulated skillfully, and the trumpet section started its chorus in a higher key.

Deborah stirred, stretched. “Damn,” she murmured. “Morning.”

She sat up, the sheet falling to her waist. Tonight is the party. That, at least, was a good thought. There’d be the preparations, and the stint at the cosmets, and the new stuff should be arriving. There was still a lot to do. She tried to remember if there was anything she’d forgotten.

Tapes.

The new Senso. That would fix them. Oh yes, that would fix them. She thought of the preview she’d seen.

The tape on the musichron persisted, and she rose abruptly, swinging her long legs over the side of the bed, touching her feet to the rug. She walked quickly to the blinds, stabbed viciously at the button in the sill. The blinds tilted downward, splashing sunlight into the room. She felt the warmth cover her body.

Damnit, was she going to have to look at a new Senso every morning? Was that what she’d have to do?

“Something’s psyched-up,” she said aloud. She walked quickly to her dressing table, opened the top drawer, and found her kit. Nothing like a fix to send the blues. Nothing like a fix to stab the Ree inside. What Ree, she wondered. What the hell am I thinking?

She unsnapped the lid, selected a vial, looked at the chrono on the case’s cover. Well, hell, no wonder; she’d overslept. It was twenty minutes past happy time. That would throw her whole day off — and with the party tonight.

“Damn,” she said softly.

She ran the silver vial on the inside of her thigh until the score gauge clicked. She fired then and felt the drug take her blood. The other thing within her died, stabbed by the narcotic daggers that raced through her body. God, this was it. Father, this was doom.

She sucked in air audibly, letting it hiss sibilantly through her teeth.

She was disappointed when the vial clicked empty. Maybe she should fix again? No. A stab-it habit was the worst kind; she’d learned that long ago. She twisted the cap of the vial, cleaned the needle, and dropped it with the other empties. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she had to eat.

Why do I have to eat, she wondered. Because, mother, face it. You’re an animal. My, I’m disgusting. And so early in the a.m., too.

“Alexis,” she called.

The door slid open instantly, and her maid came in. She wore a white hat perched atop her head and a laced skirt that ended on her thighs where long, black mesh stockings began. She looked clean and wholesome in her uniform, Deborah thought.

“Some breakfast, darl,” she said. “Not too much.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Have you fixed yet?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“You’d better have that damned musichron checked. I overslept.”

“It clicked at ten-thirty, Miss. I heard it.”

“Then why didn’t you wake me?”

“I thought... I thought you might want to rest a little longer this morning, Miss.”

“You’re not paid to think,” Deborah snapped, and was immediately sorry when she saw the hurt expression that flicked on Alexis’ face. Damn, what was wrong with her lately, anyway? Well, there was no backing down now.

“I mean... because of the party tonight,” Alexis added lamely.

“I see.” All right, she’s given you a save-face, Deborah thought. Why don’t you take it? Go ahead, you have your way out. Go ahead.

“I’ll want some orange juice, coffee, and some buttered toast,” she said.

“Yes, Miss.”

Alexis turned and started for the door, and Deborah studied the flawless seams down the curving backs of her legs.

“Alexis,” she said, fully intending to apologize.

“Yes, Miss?” The maid turned, with a sudden, eager movement.

“Nothing. Just hurry.”

“Yes, Miss.”

She left the room, and Deborah stared at the closed door for several moments after she’d gone. I’ve slipped a cog for sure, she thought. Dropped a marble or two. I wonder what Rog would have to say about this little skirmish. The same thing, probably. The same thing he’s been dinning at me for the past two months. The trouble with psychs is that most of them needed to be psyched.

She grinned and made a mental note to remember that. Maybe she’d tell it to Rog. That should stand his hair on end. She walked to her closet, opened it, and selected a short dressing gown. She slipped into it quickly, hunching her shoulders against the slippery cold feel of the silk. The gown ended just above the rounded curve of her buttocks, fastened at the crotch with a single snap that left the rest of the garment spread in a wide V. She walked to the odor control, studied the panel for a few moments, and then selected pine. She twisted the dial, adjusted it for intensity, and then sniffed pleasurably as the scent of crushed pine needles wafted into the room.

How does pine go with orange juice? she wondered. Or, she added mentally, if we’re going to get philosophical, how does anything go with orange juice?

She walked briskly to the window and stared out over the city. Another day, endless, exhaustive. Dull. Another day, another dullard.

“Miss?”

She turned, saw Alexis setting the breakfast tray on the small table near her bed. “Oh, thank you, Alexis.” She walked to the bed, sat down quickly. “I’ll be eating, darl.”

“Yes, Miss.” Alexis turned away and walked quickly from the room. The door slid shut behind her, and Deborah touched the button near the head of her bed, locking the door. She remembered the blinds, stood up, went to the window, and closed them. She went back to her breakfast then, sipping at the orange juice. She was starting on her coffee when Alexis’ voice came from outside the door.

“Miss?”

“I’m eating, Alexis.”

“I know, Miss. Please forgive me.”

“All right, what is it?”

“Mr. Moore is calling, Miss.”

“In person, or on the Vid?”

“The Vid, Miss.”

“All right, I’ll take it.” She leaned over to snap on the Vid, and then remembered to say “thanks” to Alexis. She focused until Rog Moore’s face filled the screen clearly and sharply. He sported a Vandyke carefully trimmed on his chin, and he wore his hair in its natural shade, a deep black that hugged his head like a helmet. He squinted at the screen with intense brown eyes.

“Are you with me, Deb?”

“I’m here, Rog.”

“Can’t see you.” She saw him reach out with his hand to adjust his focus control.

“I’m blanked, Rog; I’m eating.”

“Oh, forgive me. I’ll call back later.”

“No, that’s all right. What is it?”

“Nothing, really. Just calling to see how you felt this a.m.”

“Professional or personal?”

“A little of each.”

“I feel fine, Rog.”

“No... well, no recurrence of previous symptoms?”

“You sound like a Ree.”

“No, just a psych.”

“No recurrence,” she lied, “all smooth.”

“Good. Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

“A little.”

“And?”

“Zero, father.”

“Zero? Or X?”

“Sorry, I meant X. Did I say zero?”

“Yes, you did.”

“I meant X; I’m still undecided.”

“Well, mull it, jell it, it’ll come.”

“I know.”

“I’ve got to run, Deb. There’s an appointment due in about five.”

“Grooved, Rog. I’ll see you tonight, won’t I?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How’s business otherwise?”

“Not too bad. Got a real case this aft.”

“Oh?”

“A Vike turned Ree. Damndest thing you ever saw.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing much. His Id slid.”

Deborah laughed, and she saw Rog’s mobile face break into a large grin.

“I’ll see you,” he said.

He clicked off, and she went back to her breakfast, eating listlessly. His Id slid. She thought about it, and the longer she thought, the less funny it seemed.