Tomorrow’s World

Chapter 4

The party was a sumptuous thing, but then all of Deborah Dean’s parties were. She’d had one complete wall of the living room knocked down for the occasion, replacing it with a clear pane of plexoid that ran the length of the room. Her apartment was swank, high up on the fiftieth level, looking down over the city and the river. When Van came in with Lizbeth on his arm, the lights were low in the room, and the city twinkled and sparkled outside the plexoid sheet like a galaxy of blazing, multi-colored suns.

Deborah spotted them the moment they came through the door, and she hurried over. She was the only woman Brant knew who could carry off green eyes and a blue skin tint well. Her breasts were spattered with glistening gold dust, the nipples luminous in the dim light of the room. Her skirt was long in the back, almost trailing the floor, gashing upward in a wide V that terminated at her waist in the front.

“Van,” she cried, “How good!”

Van took the hand she extended, and smiled cordially. “Deborah, this is Lizbeth.”

Deborah grinned, and her eyes roamed Lizbeth’s body candidly. Van watched her with some amusement, secretly admitting that Liz had really outdone herself tonight. She had a thin blue, shimmering strap of plastone decorously clinging to her breasts. She had chosen a peach skin tint, and had contrasted it with a pitch black skirt that ended on her thighs. Her lips matched the plastone strip, and she’d done her hair to go with the skirt. They’d had a fix in Van’s car, and her eyes sparkled behind their blue contacts. Even Deborah was impressed, and Van knew she didn’t impress easily.

“Nice, Van,” she said.

“Why, thank you, Deb.”

She smiled again. “What’s your pleasure?”

“We’ve been fixed,” Van told her. “Maybe later.”

“You know where the bar is. Just help yourself. I’ve got a wonderful Senso for later, and something new in a tri-dim. And, oh, I’ve got some destructive tapes, Van. The very latest sound.” She closed her eyes ecstatically. “Doom, pure doom.”

“I’ll be listening.” He paused. “I’d like to talk to you later, Deb.”

“Why not now?”

“Alone,” he said.

Deborah opened her eyes in surprise. “Why, Van, you’re not turning Ree, are you?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Van said quickly.

She patted his cheek, her hand cool and firm, a sensuous musky perfume rising from its palm. “I was kidding, darl. As a matter of fact, I want to talk to you, too. When the Senso is showing, grooved? But then, I hate to have you miss it. It really is good.”

“I’ll see it some other time.”

“All right, Van. I’ll look for you later.”

She waved and was gone, ready to greet another pair of guests.

“She’s nice,” Lizbeth said. “I like her stomach. Who does it for her?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anything unusual about it.”

“Didn’t you notice? It was beautiful, Van, really. Oh, you’re kidding me! Didn’t you really notice?”

“There’s Rog Moore,” Van said.

“Who?”

“Moore. You know him. The big psych. I wonder what the hell he’s doing here.”

“Why not? Psychs are human.”

“Are they?”

Lizbeth giggled and took his arm. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s mingle.”

They walked across the room to a small clique who had a song going. They listened to one chorus, and then both joined in on the refrain:

They all enjoyed a good laugh, and then a tall, dark-haired boy in silver breeches began improvising a chorus.

“There once was a Ree man named Dino!

“Who strolled on the old bal-colino.

“He tripped on his clothes,

“And ruptured his nose

“In a most realistic fash-ino!

“Ohhhhhhh...”

They all laughed, and then a clever girl with pink shells on her nipples took up another chorus, a bit raw this time, but still funny. They were in the middle of another refrain when Van saw Walt Alloway come into the room. He excused himself and started for the door, the sound of the singing behind him. At the bar, a young girl lifted her leg and popped off with a vial. She was undoubtedly new at it because her eyes seemed ready to leave her skull, and she began trembling so badly that Van thought she’d lose her skirt.

He grabbed Walt by the arm before he’d even had a chance to say hello and began steering him toward a dark corner.

“Hey,” Alloway complained, “what the hell’s the rush?”

“You want to hear this, or don’t you?”

“Sure, sure. But I want to taste some of this new stuff I hear Deborah’s got. Hell, father, I haven’t had a fix since noon in preparation.”

“All right, go pop. But hurry back, Walt.”

“Sure,” Walt said, looking at Van curiously. “Sure.”

He started toward the bar, waving his hand in greeting as he passed Rog Moore, the psych. Van followed Walt with his eyes until he reached the bar, and then lost him in the cluster of people there. When Van swung his eyes back, he realized that Moore was heading in his direction. He turned his head away quickly, pretending to look through the plexoid at the city. But Moore had already spotted him, so he gave it up.

“Hello there, Brant,” Moore called.

Van looked up, feigning surprise. “Well, hello, Moore. Long time no. Pull up a chair.”

“Thanks.” The psych hooked a small foam cushion with his toe, pulled it toward him and plopped down on it. Van studied the tall thin man, his eyes roaming over the immaculate Vandyke, the eager eyes in the intense face. Moore cocked one raven brow now and said, “Nice party.”

“Not bad,” Van admitted. “I didn’t know you knew Deborah.”

“Oh yes,” Moore said. “Quite well.” He passed a clawlike hand over his naturally hairy chest, scratched idly at one pectoral. “One of my favorite patients, in fact.”

“That right?”

“Yes.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the two men. Van felt somehow uneasy. He wasn’t used to psychs, and had never held a lengthy conversation with one. Moore seemed to be experiencing the same discomfort. They sat and stared at each other while a few long minutes dragged their feet laboriously through a field of molasses.

Finally, in desperation, Van asked, “So how’s the psych business these days?”

Moore shrugged broad shoulders. “Not too good. Not for a Vike man, anyway. The Ree boys seem to be getting all the work.”

Van wondered if he were kidding, but he didn’t express skepticism. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“It’s a question of finding a norm,” Moore said slowly.

“I still don’t groove.”

Moore spread his palms wide. “I was taught in a Ree school, Van. Got my B.A. from a Ree college, my M.D. from a Ree medical school, and all my specialized training at Ree clinics. The emphasis was a little different.”

“How so?”

“Great God Freud. Chew a cigar? You were weaned too early. Wash your hands often? You’re a mastur. Glove anesthesia? You’ve got a guiltplex. You know the Ree pitch.”

“So?”

“So along comes the Vikes. And everybody flees into a dream world. Your norm is kicked to hell.”

Van didn’t say anything because he still didn’t know what the psych was talking about.

“Look at it this way,” Moore continued. “You establish a pattern. The majority of people don’t go around picking their noses on duo-pneumotubes. All right, this is the norm. You get a guy who does pick his nose in public — he’s a delegate for a booby bin. But what happens when the norm is reversed? What happens when everyone seeks the world heretofore reserved for the schizoid? Who’s normal then? And how do you treat the person who isn’t?”

“Are you saying that Vikes are...” Van forced the words out, “...mentally unbalanced?”

Moore smiled thinly. “I’m a Vike myself. It’s been ten years since I’ve touched a woman or wanted to touch one. I was a morphict for three years, a herrict for four, and I’ve been on Corradon for the last three, ever since it hit the market. My biggest charge is the Sensos, but I’m not above a cheap kick from the pabacks. A wild tape still gets a rise out of me. I know all the tricks and all the gimmicks, and I haven’t opened my mouth in public, Lord knows. I’ve even come along with the language, which was probably the hardest part. Who am I to say Vikes are nuts?”

Van was beginning to get a little irritated. “What are you saying then?”

“I’m not saying anything. I came here tonight for the same thing you did. Something like a cat house, isn’t it?”

“Listen, Moore...”

“All right, you don’t like what I’m saying. I don’t much like it, either. I keep thinking about tomorrow, though. And the tomorrow after that. And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. What’s the step beyond schizophrenia? Or mania? I’m afraid its catatonia — and that means doom.” He saw the look on Van’s face. “I’m not using it in the Vike sense, Brant. I mean doom. Plain old doom. The end. Finis. Pffft!”

“You through?”

“Sure, sure, I’m through. I understand that Deb has some new stuff at the bar.” He stood wearily and his eyes met Van’s for an instant, and then fled into their own retreat. “Maybe I’ll try some. So long, Brant.”

Brant closed his eyes for an instant, and suddenly there was a cool hand on his bare flesh, and the heady aroma of Lizbeth’s perfume in his nostrils.

He shrugged her hand away. “Don’t paw me,” he said. “Sorry, father. You look sad. Want to pop?”

“No.”

Liz giggled. “I’ve got a confession. I already did. The new stuff. It’s doom, Dad. Whoo!”

“I want solo,” he said. “Take a powder.”

“Sure, Van. They’re starting a round of Coverup, anyway, and I want to get in on it.”

“Have fun,” he said.

“Grooved.”

She turned and walked away from him, her hips swiveling, her high heels clicking against the marble floor. Van looked across the room to the bar, saw Walt elbow his way free, straighten his hair, and start over toward him. Van stood up, walked to meet Alloway halfway, and said, “Let’s step outside, Walt. I don’t want this tapped.”

“You act like a Martian spy.”

“How the hell would you know what a Martian spy acts like?”

“I read the sci-fi. Interesting.”

“That Ree junk?”

“It’s their one salvation,” Walt said, grinning crookedly.

They’d reached the balcony, and Van yanked open the manual door, stepping outside into the night. A mild breeze played over the balcony, and Deborah had covered the place with rose bushes that oozed their perfume onto the mild air, with a probable assist from a hundred hidden odophones.

“So what’s the big one?” Walt asked.

“Are you in?”

“I can’t draw blind,” Alloway said. “You’ve got to sneak-speak first.”

Van weighed this, estimating the gamble, and then decided he could trust Walt no matter what his final decision would be. “A new Senso,” he said. “So big you can’t imagine, Walt. Individual Sensory Experiences. Individual, Walt! A man sees, feels, smells one thing; a woman another. Walt it’s gigantic. It’s like nothing we’ve got. I’m sinking all I own into it. I need scribes.”

Alloway screwed up his black brows. He was a moment before answering. “You like it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m in.”

“Just like that?”

“My friend, before you took me into the fold, I was writing for the pabacks. I made an average of fifteen gee a year, and you know how far that gets you. You came on the scene then. Last year, I stacked close to half a stone. This year, with six months to go yet, I’ve made that much already. I’ve never made a move you didn’t suggest, and you’ve never suggested a move that wasn’t right.” Walt shrugged, a little overwhelmed by his own sincerity. “You say this is big, it’s big. You say I should get into it now, I get into it now. That’s the way it is, Van. That’s the kind of stupid bastard I am.”

Van grinned in the darkness. “That’s Ree talk, Walt.”

“All right, change it to ‘stupid illidge.’ It’s still the way I am, so let’s go inside and get into the Coverup. Hell, this is a dull party.”

Van clapped Walt on the shoulder, starting to head back to the party, and that was when he noticed how unusually quiet it was inside. Alloway must have detected the lack of sound at about the same time, because he turned to Van with a puzzled expression on his face. They both knew Coverup was usually a pretty noisy game during the dressing stage. The stripping half was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, but hardly enough time had progressed for the game to have been in that stage yet. As if by common consent, they both ran for the doors and into the room.

The first person Van saw was Deborah. Her face showed pale even through the blue tint. He was starting toward her when a voice shouted, “Hey, here’s two more of the bastards.”

He whirled rapidly, and then he understood the silence in the large room.

They stood in the center of the marble floor, four Rees, smug grins on their faces. They were fully clothed, of course, wearing shirts, ties, jackets, flapping trousers, hats. The apparent leader of the group, the one who had spoken, looked younger than the rest. His blond hair tumbled recklessly over his forehead, and his eyes insolently roamed the room, studying the naked bosoms of the women.

Van walked over to Deborah and asked, “Crashers, or did you invite them?”

“My God, Van,” she said. “Please!”

“What’s all the talk over there, Chesty?” the blond boy called.

Van turned and looked at him, and the Ree’s friends formed behind him in a tight semi-circle.

“You talking to me, son?”

“Yeah, you with all the hair on your chest, and the shiny muscles. What’s with you and Big Bust there?”

Deborah glanced self-consciously at her breasts, feeling the lust in the blond youth’s eyes. Van felt embarrassed for her, and he started across the room.

“Oh, look,” the blond shouted, “a hero in the crowd.”

Brant walked right up to him, and he heard Walt padding across the floor behind him. The Ree was as tall as Van, with well-rounded muscles beneath the rough cloth of his jacket. His eyes were slate-grey, and he carried his mouth like an open-switch knife.

“Are you looking for trouble, son?” Van asked.

The Ree grinned and nudged one of his pals in the ribs. “Listen to shiny skin,” he said. “Yeah, mister, we’re looking for trouble.”

“You came to the right place,” Van said softly. He heard Alloway pull up alongside him, but he did not turn his head. The room was deathly silent.

“Hey, look at the blond hair and black eyebrows,” one of the Rees said, indicating Walt. “That takes it, boy.” He began laughing, and they all joined in. Van didn’t think it was very funny.

“You’d better go,” he said. “You’d better go damned fast.”

The blond boy thought that was hilarious. “Why?” he asked. “You gonna show me a movie or something?”

“Oh,” Van said, “I dig now.”

The Ree laughed again, sure of himself now. “Listen to the tough Vike, boys. He gets all his fights from the stereos and Sensos; that’s the way he enjoys his fights.” He turned a sneer on Van. “You’re scarin’ me to death, mister. Honest.”

“Grooved,” Van said. “You figure because we get our action vicariously, we don’t know how to get it any other way. That right?”

“Yeah,” the Ree said quickly. He turned to one of the boys then and said, “Hey, you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna grab one of these nude babes and show her what a real...”

That was when Van’s fist collided with his mouth.

He felt the lip split, and then the sharp edge of the Ree’s teeth knifed into the skin on Van’s knuckles. A blossom of blood sprouted on the boy’s mouth, and he brought his hand up to his lips in surprise and sudden terror. Brant slammed his other fist into the open hand; the Ree backed up a few paces, and Van jumped after him. He heard the boy’s pals yell something and grab for him; then Walt Alloway stepped into the picture and started throwing his weight around a little.

Van gave the Ree a pop in the eye that sent him staggering back to land on his seat. He was ready to stand up again when Van lashed out with his boot and caught him on the point of his chin. After that, he wasn’t ready to do anything. Brant turned quickly, about to take on another one, when he saw Rog Moore run across the room and tear one of the Rees from Walt’s back. Van threw himself headlong at the closest Ree and began throwing fists at his head. He wasn’t used to this because it had been a long time since he’d had any practice, arid he realized he was probably very bad at it. But he was filled with a hatred big enough to blow the roof off the building, and he poured all that hatred into his fists and his feet. He kept hitting until the breath was raging in his lungs. And then he stopped because the opposing flesh had already crumpled. He stood back then and looked around him at Bruce and Rog, and then at the inert Rees on the floor.

“Let’s get them out of here,” he said hoarsely.

They dragged the Rees to the front door and threw them into the lift, setting the tabs for the first level. The lift dropped out of sight with its cargo, and they went back into the room.

Deborah rushed over to Van and said, “You were wonderful, darl.”

“Those rotten bastards,” he said. Illidge simply wasn’t strong enough, so he unconsciously reverted to the Ree terminology. “Those filthy...”

“If they come back,” Walt said, “they’re dead. So help me, they’re dead, Van. Dead.” His hands were trembling as he spoke, and there was a smear of blood stretching from his temple to his jaw. A murmur of conversation sprang up around the room now, and someone put on a tape in an effort to relieve the strained atmosphere.

“Can we wash up, Deb?” Van asked.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Come with me.”

They followed her, and she dropped Rog and Walt off at the hall bathroom, and then led Brant to the private bathroom in her own bedroom. She sat on the bed while he washed, and talked to him through the open bathroom door. Van let water in the sink and then plunged his hands into it, watching it turn red with blood.

“This makes me wonder,” Deborah said.

“About what?”

“About whether I’m doing... about whether what I’ve been thinking of doing is right or not.”

“I’m lost, Deb.” Van splashed water onto his face, feeling it sting the cuts there.

“I think I... want to have a baby, Van.”

“What!” He jerked upright and looked at her, his face and hands dripping water onto the floor.

“Yes. I think I want to very much.”

“Why?”

“Well... I’m just tired of... of Sensos and... you know, all of it. I want something new.”

“Who’s the lucky man?” Van asked sarcastically, dipping into the water again.

“Van, don’t make me retch. It won’t be that way at all.”

“No?”

“No.” She smiled playfully. “There are only three men I’d even consider that with anyway. And then only if I went Ree.”

“Who?” Van asked.

“Jamie Grew. Know him?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you would. I knew him when I was a girl.”

“Who else?”

“Rog Moore.”

“Oh.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. But I’ll bet he’s the illidge who talked you into this.”

“Well, in a way.”

“Who’s the third man?”

“You.”

Van snorted and rinsed off his face. “Well, honey, you’re barking up the wrong three.”

“I’m only joking; I’d go to the clinic, of course.”

“Mmm?”

“Yes. In fact, I’m thinking of enrolling in the next Inseminar.”

Van snapped on the ultra-vi and stepped into the field, rubbing his hands as the rays dried him. “That’s the next step above a Ree,” he said. “Next thing you know, you’ll be mating in an alley.”

“Van, for godsakes! You say the damndest things.”

“Well, it’s the truth.” He shrugged. “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Yes. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Rog. I wanted to hear what you thought of it.”

“Well, now you know.”

“And I’m going to do it anyway.”

“Go right ahead. Your womb, your tomb.” He stepped out of the field and snapped off the ray. He looked down at his torn breeches. “I don’t suppose you’ve an extra pair in the house.”

“No. Sorry.”

“Didn’t expect you to.” He tried to pull the tear together, gave it up as a sorry job, and said, “I wanted to talk to you, too, Deb.”

“What about?”

“Money.”

“What about money?”

“I need a stone. Can you lend it to me?”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“Then why do you need that much moo?”

“I need it.”

Deborah hesitated. “I might be able to scrape it together.”

“How soon?”

“How soon do you need it?”

“Immediately.”

“That gives me a lot of time,” she said snidely.

“All right, six months. No later.”

“That’s a little better.” She smiled. “In six months, I should be pregnant.”

“Must we talk about that?”

“No, of course not. I’ll have the money for you, Van. Is that better?”

Van grinned. “That’s much better.”

Deborah rose, brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from her breast and said, “Done. Shall we join the party?”