Yoo Retoont, Sneogg. Ay Noo

9

Tibsnorg became better acquainted with the classification system for biological material. Tib, Piecky, and the others had been given serial numbers, from AT044567743 to AT044567749, and no longer possessed names. It soon happened that from number 44567746—from Moosy—an eye, nose, and one kidney were harvested for cosmetic use. Tibsnorg submitted a memo in opposition to the selection of AT044567746, but it was ignored, no doubt outvoted by others who were experts. He was very upset by this.

Next was the Dags numbered 44567748. The surgery was fatal: from the Dags was taken the esophagus and stomach, liver, intestines, both hands, and penis (though not the testicles). What was left could not live, so the skin, muscles, and bones of the arms were put in a tissue culture bank, and number 44567748 was removed from the database.

The value of each organ was calculated on the basis of what it had cost to maintain the individual. It was easiest to make such a calculation when the individual’s number was removed, because in that case one simply divided the cost of maintenance of the biological material among the recipients of the organs harvested, by organ (using the proper coefficient). When the organs were not harvested together, the method of calculation applied became complicated and unclear, and Tibsnorg suspected that only the computer system could keep track of it.

He wondered what number he would have been given, if not for Babylonis. Would it have come after Tib’s?

At the cafeteria, he no longer sat alone. He began talking with the driver who worked on the trucks that carried loads from the metal mines. The man called himself Abraham Dringenboom, and he was tall, thickset, and extremely proud of his name, which had been dug out of some library of history. Dringenboom had a deep, powerful voice and spoke very loudly, which made Tibsnorg uncomfortable, because ordinarily the cafeteria was silent. It seemed to him that everyone was watching them, though that made little sense, seeing as no one was interested in them. Besides, many of the diners had poor hearing or couldn’t hear at all.

“Tibsnorg Pieckymoosy…,” boomed Dringenboom. “A strange name. Why did you choose it?”

“It’s many names,” Tibsnorg replied quietly. “There are many in me.”

“Hmm,” muttered Dringenboom. “So you made it up… It’s not wise to get too close to the others in your Room… You know, today they said that the average lifespan of a person now is as much as twenty-four years.” He was changing the subject. “I think it’s too good to believe. I think they’re fiddling with the medical statistics a little, so we won’t feel bad.”

“How do they arrive at that figure?” asked Tibsnorg, interested. “Is it for all individuals born or only for persons?”

“Are you kidding? For persons, of course. Less than a tenth are born alive.”

Tibsnorg scrutinized Dringenboom. The driver seemed completely normal. True, he wore a gray tunic and trousers, so his body was not visible, but apart from the harelip that had been operated on, the scar from it mostly hidden by a graying stubble, nothing indicated any departure from the norm.

As if reading his thoughts, Dringenboom said, “My entire trunk was covered with warts on long, disgusting stalks. I had them removed. But the biggest problem is between my legs.” Dringenboom grimaced. “But don’t feel sorry for me, Tibsnorg. I’ll buy myself the proper equipment and make five living kids with it. I’ve already put 1620 money away,” he added, seeing Tibsnorg’s disbelief.

That much money was inconceivable: Tibsnorg could save only 22.24 money from each ten-day period. For the sum of 1620 one could buy all of Tib-that is, of course, as biological material. More and more often her slender, graceful figure appeared before him, surrounded by a storm of colorful hair. His dreams were invariably about the Room. In and out of those dreams moved familiar shapes, but Tib was always present.

Tibsnorg rented a better room, one that had a window. Rooms at the surface were a rarity, so he was surprised that his new room-though a little smaller and with two viewscreens instead of three-cost only eight money more than the previous one. He understood the reason when he learned how high the radiation background was in rooms at the surface. But the view was worth it. He would spend hours looking at the opaque, leaden clouds that hung over the bare dun hills. The edge of the glacier wasn’t visible, because his window was too low. The glacier could be seen only from the observation tower, and only on clear days or with good binoculars.

The scene, though it wasn’t lovely like the ones on the viewscreen, drew him with irresistible force. That was probably why he applied for the position of driver of an outside transporter. Another motive was the high salary, which would allow him to save a considerable sum in a relatively short time.

At the transport bureau he was told to go to an official in a wheelchair. The man didn’t come much above the desk, but there was something in his eyes that advised caution. When Tibsnorg presented the application, the man looked him over.

“Are you neuter or sexed?”

“Neuter,” Tibsnorg lied, aware that being neuter was a condition for the job. The official nodded and with a disproportionately small hand entered something on the keyboard. He regarded the screen, and the lines of his face hardened. Even before he spoke, it was clear that the interview was over. Dringenboom almost struck Tibsnorg when he heard what had happened. In a fury, he pulled from the pocket of his worksuit his indicator-a small, pink piece of plastic.

“Look at that, idiot!” he said, pointing a thick finger at the plastic. His finger wobbled over the pink rectangle. “When that turns red, I can throw out my calendar…” His eyes flashed in his deeply tanned face. He made so much money, he could tan his skin. “Are you in such a hurry to get into the ground?!” he snarled.

“You can afford a sun lamp,” said Tibsnorg quietly.

“And what, stupid, is that worth?… You can have woman by the bunch… even if you’re missing everything between your legs but balls. The balls are what’s important… the rest of it, the meat, doesn’t cost more than 600, 800 money.”

“I’m all right physically,” Tibsnorg blurted. “It’s my nervous system that’s not complete.”

“That’s even cheaper… I’m telling you, you won’t be able to drive the women away. They’ll pull you apart. You should live, not die, my friend…”

Tibsnorg thought of telling him about Tib, but changed his mind, and the conversation ended there.

Abe Dringenboom was the only person Tibsnorg saw regularly. With random acquaintances at the table Tibsnorg exchanged only a few words. In contrast with his life in the Room, he led a solitary existence. He didn’t seek out people; he lived with his memories. The women he met in the cafeteria or passed in the corridors couldn’t compare with Tib: either they were ugly or their deformities were too evident. He began to wear, according to the rules, the red stripe that signified that he was not neuter, but that made no change whatever in his behavior. Perhaps he grew a little curt with the women, who now began to approach him. Possibly, had he worn the two red stripes that indicated full function, the pulling apart that Dringenboom warned about would have happened, but with one stripe Tibsnorg was left in peace.

Several days later, Dringenboom brought unpleasant news.

“I have cancer,” he said in a dull voice.

“So? Half the population has cancer,” said Tibsnorg with a shrug.

“Mine’s in phase C,” said Dringenboom.

“You have 1620 money, you’ll be all right,” said Tibsnorg.

“It’s 1648,” corrected Dringenboom. “But it’s too little, it’s worth shit… I have the kind that spreads quickly. To cure it, I’d need at least one and a half thousand, and then there’d be nothing left for a dick.”

Tibsnorg was annoyed. “Why did they let it get to phase C? That’s advanced. You could sue the medical division,” he said.

“It’s my fault,” muttered Dringenboom. “I didn’t go for the tests, because they cost and I wanted to save up before my indicator went completely red.”

“But you can get free medical care, like every person.”

“No thanks.” Dringenboom’s eyes were lusterless, and in his voice you could hear the lisp from his harelip operation. “They’ll leave me my brain, eyes, and part of my nervous system, and the rest they’ll take out and burn because of all the metastases. Then they’ll make me part of a control unit for a shoveler in a mine or for a conveyer belt…”

“I think they could cure you another way than by replacing the diseased organs. But they don’t do that for economic reasons. The demand for organs would fall if they did that…” Saying this, Tibsnorg began to calculate: 1648 money could buy all of Tib. And Dringenboom would be dead soon in any case. His indicator was already very dark. How many organs could Dringenboom buy? Twelve? Fourteen? Tibsnorg thought, “He’ll lose his body in the end anyway, and for him that’s worse than death. How can I get his money?”

Dringenboom looked at Tibsnorg, saying nothing.