Tomorrow’s World

Chapter 6

Dino Pelazi cursed the old man silently, but there was a smile on his face that lent it a choir boy innocence.

The old man looked at the smile and nodded, and Dino nodded in return.

“So you are Dino Pelazi,” he croaked. His voice was withered and old, a drying waterhole on a desert, the skeleton of a boat on a barren stretch of beach. It creaked with its age, it stank with its age, it filled the room and the ears with its age. Pelazi winced slightly.

“Yes,” he said. “I am Dino Pelazi.”

The old man shifted in his chair, and Pelazi heard the dry rustle of his bones. Death was not far off for this one. Death watched over his shoulder, and breathed down his neck. Death lingered in the gnarled hands that curled greedily on the cane top. Death was in the eyes sunken deep in the skull-like face, and the odor of Death was rank on the old man’s breath.

“And you come to me, eh, Pelazi?” The eyes snapped with sudden life, sparking blueness into the sombre grey of the room. “Why?”

“You are a Ree, Mr. Kurtzman,” Pelazi said softly. You are the worst kind of Ree, he thought. A super-Realist.

“I am a Realist, yes,” Kurtzman said. “There are other Realists. Why me?”

There was shrewd intelligence in the blue eyes. The eyes crouched behind their lids like panthers waiting to pounce. The old man’s harsh breathing filled the room.

“We need help, Mr. Kurtzman,” Pelazi said. “You have helped the Rees before.”

“I have helped the Realists.” Kurtzman corrected. “I dislike these abbreviations, Pelazi; they dishonor the Realist.”

“Your pardon,” Pelazi said, deferentially. “You are, then, a Realist.” And a dirty bastard Ree, he added silently. “We need your help. Realists everywhere need your help.”

“My help, eh?” Kurtzman cackled. “Me, eh? An old man. You know how old I am, Pelazi?”

“No, sir.”

“Eighty-seven, Pelazi. You know any Vikes live that long, eh? You know any Vike still around at eighty-seven?”

“No, sir.”

Kurtzman nodded his head, and his eyes wandered into their private revery. He’s an old man, Pelazi thought. Be patient. He has what you want.

“Know why I’m still around, Pelazi?” Kurtzman’s eyes narrowed shrewdly.

“No, sir.”

“Plenty of women,” he said. He saw the surprised look on Pelazi’s face and slapped his open palm onto his knee. “Yessir,” he said, enjoying the joke, “plenty of Grade-A wenches.” He nodded in self-satisfaction. “And another thing, Pelazi.”

Pelazi steeled himself. “What, sir?”

“Sales resistance. Against people like you.”

“I think, Mr. Kurtzman...”

“Isn’t anybody in this world hasn’t got something to sell!” Kurtzman snapped, holding up his hand. The hand unsnapped suddenly, a forefinger pointed at Pelazi’s nose. “You’re no different. You’ve got something to sell, too.”

Pelazi stood up. “Yes,” he said. “Survival.”

“How’s that?” Kurtzman was surprised. “Sit down, Pelazi. Sit down.”

“I’ll stand. I’m selling survival, Mr. Kurtzman. For you and your children and your grandchildren. Survival because we damn well need it.”

“Survival, eh? I’m eighty-seven years old now, Pelazi. I’ve done all right so far. I don’t need any young...”

Pelazi slammed a clenched fist into the open palm of his other hand. “You do! Because you and your generation have made a goddamn sorry mess of things, and now it’s up to us to pick up the pieces. No, don’t get up, Mr. Kurtzman. Hear me out.”

Kurtzman had begun to sputter, but he subsided and studied Pelazi with renewed interest. His blue eyes flashed, and his hands tightened on the head of his cane.

“It’s a Vike world,” Pelazi said. “It’s a...”

“It isn’t!” Kurtzman shrieked.

“How would you know? You sit here in your plush library and dream about the old days and the women you’ve had. I’m out there, Mr. Kurtzman, and I tell you it’s Vike. It’s Vike, and it stinks!”

“Young man, I won’t take this sort of talk from...”

“Don’t then!” Pelazi shouted. “Have me kicked out. Go ahead, ring for your butler and have him toss me into the gutter. You can do it. But I’ve got survival here, Mr. Kurtzman.” He extended a balled fist. “Right here. Right here in the palm of my hand.” He shook the fist. “You’ve had a good life, an easy one. It won’t last a hell of a lot longer if the Vikes keep moving. And they will, Mr. Kurtzman. As sure as you’re sitting there, they will. And someday you’ll wake up and find yourself in the gutter, and all this will be a Stereohouse for the Vikes.”

Kurtzman’s mouth cracked in a thin smile, and Pelazi threw a forefinger at him. “Don’t laugh! By God, don’t laugh, because it’s serious. It’s the most serious thing that’s ever happened, and I’ve got a plan for stopping it. Only me, Mr. Kurtzman. Dino Pelazi. I can stop them, but I need your help. You and a lot of other Rees like you.”

The smile vanished from Kurtzman’s face. He stared at Pelazi, and Pelazi thought, This is it. I either get kicked out or I get what I want.

The two men stared at each other for a long while. Kurtzman’s eyes wandered, and Pelazi knew he was thinking of times gone by, of Realist times with women, of power, and the slow dissipation of that power. Pelazi knew he was thinking all this, and he studied the old man, and almost prayed. And then Kurtzman’s eyes snapped back to Pelazi’s face.

“What do you want, Pelazi? Name it!” His voice was firm. “Name it, and I’ll see. Name it.”

Pelazi smiled and leaned forward. “Money,” he said.

It was raining lightly when Van Brant stopped by for Liz that night. His call was unexpected, and she was surprised to see him.

“Van! What brings?”

“Things. Want to see a Senso?”

“Well...” She indicated her pale breasts, her unmade face.

“Throw on anything. We’ll go to a local.”

“All right. I’ll be a minute. Have you fixed?”

“A little while ago, thanks.”

“Well, the bar’s open. Help yourself if you want to.”

“Thanks.”

He walked around the apartment aimlessly, pausing at the bar and studying the silver vials laid end to end inside. Neat. Liz was a good secretary. Neat in everything she did. He lifted a vial of opaine, tempted to try it. He shook his head, replaced it in position, and closed the top of the bar. Straight, no mate. Better that way.

He tried to keep his mind off Hayden Thorpe and the new project. That was one of the reasons for stopping in at a show tonight. He knew he couldn’t do anything until he had the moo, and that might take some time. He disliked inactivity of any sort. Now that he knew about the project, he wanted to get started on it Instead, he had to wait.

Waiting reminded him of Liz. He looked at his wrist-chron and called, “Hey, mother, no major paint job.”

“No slob job, either,” she called back. “Be with you in half a second.”

It was a full seven minutes before Liz emerged from the bedroom. As she’d promised, she hadn’t done a major job: Breasts and lips. She’d expertly smeared a dazzling a galaxy of crescents onto her chest, cupping her nipples with two dark blue caps. Van looked at the caps in amusement.

“It’s drizzling,” he said, “but it’s not cold.”

She smiled. “Is it raining hard?”

“Why? Does that stuff run?”

“Perish it,” she said. “Come on, let’s go.”

They left the apartment, and on the way down in the lift, she said, “I could use a Senso; I’m just in the mood.”

“Well, good.”

“Are you?”

“I want to take my mind off other things.”

“Bad? Sad?”

“Mad.”

They walked side by side, not touching each other. They passed a Ree couple, the boy with his arm around the girl’s waist. Van lowered his eyes, and Liz turned her head in disgust.

“Rabbits,” she said viciously. Van didn’t answer. When they reached the Sensohouse, he bought two tickets and then led Liz into the darkness. They found seats together and leaned back against the foam. The film reached out for their senses.

They did not speak to each other during the show. They were not even aware of each other’s existence, nor of the people seated everywhere around them. They surrendered completely to the images that surrounded them, allowed the make-believe to take hold of their bodies, their minds, allowed emotions to reel staggeringly into their consciousness.

Their blood quickened, and their hearts beat faster, and they felt the accustomed tightening within them, the craving, the deep hungering. The images flickered before them, and the hunger mounted, grasped at their bodies with clawing fingers. Higher and higher, with the music keening to them from the wall speaks, the odophones intoxicating their nostrils, and always the images, the men and the women, the actions, the hunger growing until it was an ache that threatened to tear the body apart. And then the satisfaction, like a plunge through a crystal clear lake, with the lungs reaching desperately for respite, the body trembling, the surface of the water splitting like a thousand fragile mirrors, and the clean sweet release of air rushing, rushing, rushing, and the expansive stretch of white sand with the sun baking tired muscles, warm and embracing.

They leaned back and rested, still not acknowledging the presence of one another. The wall speaks issued soft music, and they gathered strength, composing their spent emotions.

At last, Van turned to her. “There’s another feature, Liz.”

“No more,” she said. “Not tonight. I’d like a fix.”

“All right. There’s a Stop ’N’ Pop in the neighborhood. We can walk it.”

They left quietly, each content. He was glad he’d decided on a Senso. He’d completely forgotten Thorpe and the project, and now that it intruded on his memory again, he wished he had talked Liz into staying for the second go.

The Stop ’N’ Pop was brilliantly aglow with neon. The lighted tubes shouted their wares to the sky: HEROIN * COCCAINE * OPIUM * BARBS * MARIJUANA * BENZEDRINE * MORPHINE * MIXTURES

And in big red letters: ** CORRADON **

“Here we go,” Van said.

He glanced at his wrist-chron. It was close to happy time, anyway, so it didn’t matter if he grabbed a pop now. The place was crowded, which was to be expected in a predominantly Vike neighborhood. He shoved his way to the counter, wishing he’d invited Liz up to his place instead, where they could have popped in comfort.

What was she on, anyway? Opaine? Herro-coke? These damn mixers annoyed the hell out of him.

A bleary-eyed clerk moved up to the counter. “What’ll you have, sir?”

“Vial of morph, and one of opaine. This stuff clean?”

“The cleanest, Mac; we’re Guv inspected.”

“Okay, snap it up.”

The clerk reached for the neatly stacked vials behind him, passing two to Van. “Toss them in the receptacles when you’re through, will you?”

“Grooved.”

Van paid the clerk and walked back to Liz. She stood near the swab dispenser, and she had already secured the alcohol-soaked cotton wads for herself and Van.

“Get it?” she asked.

“I hope you’re on opaine.”

“That’s my kick, Dick.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

He handed the mixed drug to her, and she quickly swabbed the inside of her thigh, kicking her thin skirt aside.

“Happy,” he said.

“Ditt.”

She fired and an exultant look took her face. “Oh, God,” she said. He watched the vial as it kicked the drug, each new spurt sending a violent spasm through her body. He swabbed his arm and popped off when the gauge clicked. It wasn’t happy time, but he enjoyed it anyway.

“I needed that,” she said.

“These Sensos leave you limp,” he agreed.

He took the empty vials, brought them to the receptacle and dropped them in. When he walked back to Liz, she was leaning against the swab dispenser, and her eyes were glazed.

“Hey,” he said, “what brews?”

“Whoo, that was powerful.”

“Guv inspected, the clerk said.”

“But strong. Mother!”

“Let’s walk it off.”

She nodded blankly. The drizzle had begun again, touching their faces lightly. They walked slowly, enjoying the rain and the power of the drug. They did not see many Rees in the streets. This was a residential level, inhabited mostly by Vikes. The lights in the shop windows blinked at them, and Van began to really feel the strength of the drug. It had been powerful, much stronger than he was used to, and it distorted the streets, made the passing cars look like speeding tear drops, joined the lights in a wild medley of streaks against the sky.

When he heard the shouting, he thought it was the effect of the drug. It started in a dim corner of his mind, started with the repeated word, “Rabbit!”

He shook his head, and the shouting persisted, and more words joined it. The words ran together like molten lead. “Ree... rabbit... ree... rabbit... rrrrabbbittt... rrreeeebbbitttt...”

And then the shouting exploded, and he opened his eyes wide.

“Ree!”

“REE!”

A boy darted from behind one of the buildings, passed no farther than three feet from Van. Van backed away instinctively, felt Liz’s hand tighten on his arm, shook it away.

The boy was a Ree. He wore long trousers, and a flapping shirt. His hair was mussed, falling into his eyes, and the eyes bore the unmistakable stamp of fear. He darted past them, ran into the gutter. A speeding car swerved aside, and the boy curved around it, leaped the barrier into the low-speed lane.

Another group of boys erupted from the mouth of the alley alongside the building. Vikes. Twenty of them. Young kids, with hair in sparse patches on their chests. Tight breeches. Shouting, “Reel Ree! Ree!”

The Ree turned, and the fear was large on his face now. It showed in his eyes, and in the grim set of his mouth, and in the whiteness of his face. A slowing car pulled aside, and the boy turned to run.

The Vikes were in the speed lane now. They waited while a car rushed by, and then they started after the Ree again.

“Van, what is it?” Liz said. Her hand was on his arm again.

“A Ree,” he said blankly.

“But... but what are they doing?” Her eyes were still glazed from the drug. Her mouth hung slackly, and she stared at Van in confusion.

The robot policeman on the comer lifted a mechanical hand, and a red light gleamed hotly in his metal chest. A car slowed to a stop, and the Ree looked at it frantically and then ran to it. He clawed at the door handle, found it locked. Van saw the driver edge away from the door, saw his hands tighten on the wheel. The light was still red.

“Mister, open up, please!” the Ree pleaded.

The driver glanced at the robot. The red light looked back at him. He looked again at the white-faced boy outside his car. He gave it the gun. The car lurched ahead, and the Ree clung desperately to the door handle. He lifted his feet, scrabbling for a hold on the smooth, shining surface of the car. His feet dropped to the pavement, and Van heard the angry scrape of his shoe soles against the ground. The driver slammed the car into whirl, and it shot ahead through the red light, ignoring the camera that automatically photographed its license tab. The Ree clung to the handle until his trouser legs were shredded, and then he released his grip and dropped to the concrete. The car surged off into the distance, its atomic engine whining.

“He’s down!” one of the Vikes shouted.

They leaped the barrier into the low-speed lane, and Van saw now that they were carrying sticks, and bottles, and open knives.

“Oh God,” Liz said hoarsely. “Van, what is it?”

Van watched in horror as one of the Vikes lifted a bottle and brought it down on the boy’s head. The Ree got to his knees, began crawling away. A Vike kicked him in the ribs, and he fell to the concrete again. They were all around him now, shouting, laughing, cursing. Van saw the garbage can then.

He saw it in the hands of a big Vike boy. He saw the can go up over the boy’s head, high, higher, and sudden realization knifed through him.

“No!” he tried to shout. The word came through his lips like a parched whisper instead. He took a step forward, and felt the strong pressure of Liz’s hand on his arm.

“Van don’t. They’re wild. They’ll...”

The Ree screamed, up, down, and the screams hung on the air, rending the night, up, down, up, down. Vikes shouted and cursed and the Ree’s screams faded and died until they became part of the murmur of the crowd.

Van stood rooted to the spot, a sick revulsion inside him. He had wanted to help the Ree. Or had he? He wondered now if he’d have gone to the Ree’s aid if Liz hadn’t stopped him. He wondered, and the doubt gnawed at his mind.

The wail of a siren climbed into the night sky. The police. And too late, Van thought. The Vikes began running, mingling with the crowd, leaving the Ree in the center of the lane. A line of cars slowed, pulled aside and stopped to let the police cars through.

Van looked at the broken, crumpled body on the pavement.

Liz began trembling. “Let’s go, Van. Please, let’s go.” Her body shook, and her breast shook, and her chin shook. Her eyelids blinked. “Please!”

He allowed her to take his arm. They walked rapidly, not turning to look back at the crowd dispersing before the shouts and gestures of the two policemen. Two Vike boys were walking in front of them. Van heard a young voice say, “Did you see me pop that illidge with the bottle?”

The other boy laughed, and Van felt Liz’s fingers curl on his arm.

They did not speak at all on the way home. When he’d dropped Liz off at her place and was back in his own apartment again, he shot up three vials of morph, enough to send him to bed blind.