Future crime, p.2
Future Crime, page 2
After they quieted down again, Ron resumed, “When you leave Manhattan Dome and start out for the train station to go home, they put you on a special bus—it’s sort of like an ambulance. They take off all your clothes and get rid of them. Then they make you shower and they cleanse you with all sorts of special stuff. You have to stick a tube down your nose and all the way into your lungs—”
“Yuck!”
“Yeah, but you’ve got to get rid of the carcinogens you breathed in while you were in the City. And the germs. You pick up enough germs to start an epidemic back home, the medic told us.”
“Well, cancel my trip. I’m not going through that.”
“I am,” Ron said. “I’m going back to New York City before they close it for the winter.”
“You are?”
“Yep. And this time I’m going alone, without my dad. There are a lot of things to see and do that he wouldn’t let me into. He always thinks he knows best … treats me like a kid.”
Jimmy asked, “Does your father know you’re going back alone?”
“No. And don’t anybody tell on me, either.”
They were still talking about New York City when the ten o’clock whistle went off.
“Damn!”
“Curfew time already?”
“I bet those security cops ring it early on us.”
“They can’t. It’s automatic.”
The boys got up slowly, grumbling. Ron pulled himself to his feet.
Jimmy came over beside him and asked softly, “Are you really going back to New York City?”
Nodding, Ron said, “You bet. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’m going.”
“There’s only a week or so left before Labor Day. Don’t they close the City after that?”
“Yep.”
“Wish I could go, too.”
“Come on along!” Ron said, enthusiastically. “It’d be terrific, the two of us.”
“Naw, I can’t. My folks wouldn’t let me.”
“Don’t tell them!”
Jimmy scuffed at the astroturf with a bare foot. “They’d kill me when I got back. Naw … I just can’t.”
Ron didn’t know what to say. He just stood there.
“Well … g’night,” Jimmy said.
Ron shrugged at him.
The boys filed through the back gate in the fence that surrounded Ron’s house. They fanned out, each heading for his own house. All the houses on the long curving broad quiet street were the same. Each had a broad back lawn of astroturf with a swimming pool and the same low, imitation-wood fences. In each of the houses, the parents sat watching TV, like good citizen consumers.
The Tract houses went on, street after street, row after row, for as far as Ron knew. The only break in their ranks was the big shopping center, where all the fathers worked in offices on the upper floors of the store buildings. The train station was next to the shopping center, underground, beneath the parking lot. The train ran through a deep tunnel, so Ron never saw where the Tracts ended and the City began.
Ron stood beside the pool for a long while and looked up at the stars. The sky was completely clear of clouds. The Weather Control Force wouldn’t start the nightly rain for another couple of hours. Up there now in the blackness he could see sparkling Vega and brilliant Altair. And there was Deneb, at the tail of the Swan—the stars of the Swan stretched halfway across the summer sky in a long, graceful cross, slim and beautiful.
If only Dad could see how beautiful it all is, Ron thought. If only …
Then he remembered the National Exams. The tests that settled what your career would be. The tests that fixed the pattern of the rest of your life. If you did poorly, the chances were that they would put you in the Social Services, or worse, in the Army. But if you did well—incredibly well—maybe you could get to spend your whole life studying the stars.
They’d tell him how he scored on the tests tomorrow.
Tomorrow was going to be The Day.
Tomorrow.
A movement of light caught his eye. Far down the row of houses, a silent patrol car was gliding along the emptied street. The security patrol, making certain that nobody was out past curfew.
Ron shook his head and headed for the house. He knew that his parents were watching TV: Dad in his den and Mother in her bedroom. Mother never felt very strong, so they seldom had friends over. Ron went straight up to his room without bothering either of his parents.
Before they close the City down, I’m going back to New York, he told himself again. No matter what the National Exam results are, I’m going back.
Ron woke up.
His eyes snapped open and he was awake. Not groggy at all. Eyes wide open, mind clear and sharp. He could hear the morning music and news coming from his alarm stereo, the newscaster’s soft voice purring along in cadence to the “easy listening” music. The sun was streaming through his bedroom window. Very faintly, Ron could hear the water circulating in the solar-powered pumps between his bedroom ceiling and the roof.
A moment ago he had been sleeping, dreaming something ugly and scary. Now he was so fully awake that he couldn’t even remember what his dream was about. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He had painted patterns of stars up there on the blue paneling: Orion, the Dippers, the Lion—
The Exam results, he suddenly recalled. Today’s The Day!
Forever Day.
He got out of bed and walked quietly to the sanitary stall. The needle-spray shower felt good. The hot-air blower felt even better. Ron looked at his face in the stall’s mirror. He had never been very happy about his face. The nose was too big and the eyes were too small. Ordinary brown eyes. Brown hair, too. Just ordinary.
He had seen a few guys in New York with long hair, really long and flowing. It looked weird at first. Ron stared at his own short-clipped hair. Nice and trim. Everybody wore it that way at home. Easy to keep clean. Sanitary. Ordinary.
He wondered how it would look if it were long, long enough to flow over his shoulders. Then he pictured what his father would say. Or scream.
There was some dark brown fuzz on his chin, so Ron rubbed in a palmful of shaving powder and rinsed it all off. Now even his mother would agree that he looked clean and sanitary.
Pulling on a jersey top and shorts, Ron noticed how quiet the house was. The alarm stereo had shut off, of course, as soon as he’d gotten up from the bed. It’s early, he told himself. His mother stayed in bed most of the time; doctor’s orders, she said. Dad didn’t have to leave for his office for another hour. Ron slid his feet into his plastic sandals and went downstairs.
His father was already in the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast counter with a cup of steaming coffee in front of him, watching the morning news on the wall TV.
“You’re up early,” said Ron’s father. “Nervous?”
Nodding, Ron answered, “Guess so.”
Mr. Morgan was nearly fifty years old. His hair was gray and thin, with a bald spot showing no matter how he combed it. Ron had seen photos of his father when he had been much younger—he had been tall and trim and he was grinning happily in those pictures. Now he was heavy, almost fat. And he seldom smiled.
Someday I’ll be just like him, Ron thought. Rich and overweight and old. Unless …
The wall TV showed a handful of soldiers walking slowly, painfully, through some jungle growth. They looked all worn out: shoulders sagging, mouths hanging open, shirts dark with sweat, eyes red and puffy. One of them had a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his middle. His arms were draped over the shoulders of two buddies, who were half carrying, half dragging him along. All but two of the soldiers on the screen were black. The only black people Ron had ever seen were on TV.
The TV newscaster was saying: “ … and only sixteen Americans were lost in this skirmish near the Amazon River delta. Fifty-four enemy dead were counted and verified, and …”
He sounded so damned cheerful! Ron stared at the soldiers. He knew they were his own age, or maybe a year older, at most. But they looked like old men—old, old men who had seen death so often and so close that nothing else mattered to them.
The TV picture suddenly snapped off. Ron felt himself jerk back a little in surprise. His father had turned it off.
“You don’t have to worry about things like that,” his father said.
Ron looked at him. “If I didn’t do well in the Exams—”
“You won’t be drafted, don’t worry,” Mr. Morgan insisted. “Even if you funked the Exams, I can buy your way out of the draft. The draft’s not for kids like you, anyway. It’s for those poor slobs—those bums who couldn’t hold down a decent job even if you handed it to them on a platinum platter.”
“But”—
“Don’t worry about it, I’m telling you.” The older man’s voice went up a notch, which meant he wasn’t going to listen to anything Ron had to say on the subject.
“Okay, sure.” For a moment Ron stared at the nowdead TV screen. He could still see the young-old soldiers.
Then he went around the breakfast counter and pulled a package from the freezer. The cold metal foil made his fingers tingle. He put the package in the microwave cooker and thirty seconds later, out slid the package, sizzling hot. Ron grabbed it and put it in front of his father quickly, before the heat could get to his fingers.
Mr. Morgan peeled back the metal foil to reveal steaming eggs, pancakes, and sausages. He looked up at his son. “Where’s yours?”
“I’m not hungry,” Ron said.
His father huffed. “You ought to eat something. Get me some juice, will you? At least have a glass of milk. You shouldn’t start the day on an empty stomach.”
Ron got the juice and the milk. He drank half a glass of ice-cold milk and watched his father eating. But he kept glancing at the clock on the wall, next to the TV screen. The call will come at nine o’clock, he knew. They always call at nine sharp.
An hour and a half to go, and the seconds-counter on the digital clock was crawling like a wounded soldier dragging himself through jungle mud.
“I … I’m going out to the garage,” Ron said.
His father stared at him a moment, then said, “All right. I’ll call you when the Examiner phones.”
“You’re not going to work today?”
With a tight smile, Ron’s father said, “I’ll wait until the Examiner calls.”
Ron nodded and headed for the back door.
It was cool and pleasant outside. The night’s rain had washed the sky a clean and cloudless blue.
The garage was really more of a workshop than anything else. The family electric car always stayed out on the driveway, where the neighbors could see how big and new it was. It took so much electrical power to run it that Mr. Morgan had to keep it plugged in to the garage’s special power-charger all night. Once he had backed out of the driveway without disconnecting the cable. It snapped across the windshield like a whip, crazing it into a million spiderwebs of cracks. Mr. Morgan spent an hour hopping up and down on the driveway next to his car, screaming at everybody about everything except his own forgetfulness.
Ron had fixed the cable and the plug. He had also wanted to try to put in the new windshield, but his father wouldn’t let him. Mr. Morgan took the car to a repair shop, where they charged him six times what Ron thought the job was worth. But Ron did change the socket in the car, so that it would automatically disengage and release the cable when the car began to move.
“That’s pretty good, son,” Mr. Morgan had said, with genuine astonishment in his voice.
So Ron clanked around in the garage workshop for more than an hour. He deliberately avoided looking at his wristwatch. Instead, he worked on the electronic image booster that he was building for his telescope. It would allow the instrument to pick out stars that were far too faint for an unboosted telescope to register. With this electronics package, Ron’s telescope would be almost the equal of the big reflector in the school’s observatory.
“Ron!” His father’s voice.
He suddenly felt hot and cold at the same time. His guts seemed to go rigid, and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. Stiffly, Ron walked back to the house. Through the back door into the kitchen, across the dining area, and into the family room.
His father was sitting, on the big plastic sofa. The full-wall TV screen was connected to the phone, so the Examiner’s face looked out at them, huge and frightening.
But he was smiling. The Examiner had a thin face, with absolutely white hair that was cropped so close to his slightly square skull that it looked like baby fuzz. But his face wasn’t a baby’s. It was lined and lean and leathery.
But he was smiling!
“Ahh … and this is our young man,” said the Examiner.
He hadn’t been smiling when he’d handed out the test sheets to Ron and the other sixteen-year-olds. Nor had he smiled when they had left the Exams, eight grueling hours later.
“Ron, you kept the Examiner waiting,” his father snapped.
“I’m sorry … I was out in the workshop …” But you knew that, Ron thought.
The Examiner said, “Perfectly all right, although I am rather pressed for time. Ronald Morgan, I have the pleasure of announcing that you scored in the top three percent of the National Exams.”
Ron felt the breath gush out of him. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath. His father broke into a broad grin and looked up at him happily.
“Your scores were especially good in the mechanical arts and electronics. Math was a little low, but still in the highest ten percentile. All in all, one of the best Exams it’s been my pleasure to score this year. Congratulations.”
“Um … er … thank you, sir.”
“Marvelous, son. Marvelous.”
“Now then,” the Examiner went on, “you are in the happy position of being qualified to choose the Career vector you desire. You are obviously too valuable a man for service in the Armed Forces—unless you choose to volunteer for officer training. With your Exam results, you could be commissioned in the Army, Navy or Space Forces quite easily.”
Ron’s father said, “I don’t think—”
“No, no, no,” said the Examiner. “The decision must not be made right now. You must take your time and decide by the end of the month. You must think over many different sides of the problem.”
“Of course. Excuse me.”
Turning his gaze back to Ron, the Examiner went on, “In addition to the Service vector, the next choice of Career vector is in the Business community. You can enter the Business college of your choice, with these Exam results behind you. There are several fine schools in this State that are free. There are even better private Business schools, if you so choose.”
Ron nodded.
“The final choice open to you is the University vector. Your high scores in science and the mechanical arts show that you would enjoy a career in science or engineering. You’d need to work a little harder on your math, of course.”
“Yes,” Ron agreed.
“There are very few career openings in the sciences, you must realize. Only a young man with as brilliant an Exam as yours can even think of trying for the sciences. On the other hand, there is a great need for engineers—men who can make machines work properly. If I were making a recommendation, that’s what I would pick for you.”
The Examiner stopped talking and looked at Ron. Not knowing what to say, Ron simply mumbled, “Thank you, sir,” again.
“Very good,” the Examiner said. “Well … talk it over. Think about it very carefully. Remember that the choice you make will determine your Career vector for life. This is the most important choice you will ever make, young man. Good luck. I will expect to hear from you by the first … ... no, no, there’s the Labor Day holiday. I will expect to hear from you on the Tuesday after Labor Day.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Morgan said.
The TV screen faded into grayness.
“Son, I’m proud of you!” Mr. Morgan pulled himself up from the sofa and stood before his son, with his hand outstretched. Ron grasped it, grinning and feeling a little sheepish.
His father pumped Ron’s hand hard. “You’ve done very well. Very well indeed.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Come on, let’s go up and tell your mother.”
Mrs. Morgan was quiet and frail. She lived on pills and long talks with doctors on the TV phone. She seldom left her bedroom. When Ron and his father entered her bedroom, she was sitting up in bed, her lounging robe buttoned up to the neck. She smiled and nodded when they told her of the Examiner’s call. Then she called Ron over to her side and hugged him.
“I knew you would make it, Ronnie dear,” she said.
After a few moments of her fussing over Ron, Mr. Morgan took over and pulled him away from her. He towed Ron by the arm out of her bedroom and into his own den. It was a darkly-paneled room, part office and part hideaway. Mr. Morgan closed the door firmly and pointed to the chair in front of his desk.
“Sit down, son.”
Ron sat while his father went behind the desk and pulled a little booklet from one of the drawers.
“This is from Getty College, where I went to school,” Mr. Morgan said, sliding the booklet across the desk toward Ron. “I knew you’d do well in the Exams. I’ve already enrolled you in Getty’s business school—the same course that I had as a freshman!”
And now Ron knew why he had been scared. It wasn’t that he had been afraid of flunking the Exams, of going into the Army to fight in South America. It was this. He was afraid of his father.
“Dad …” His voice was so low that he could barely hear himself. “Dad … I, uh … I don’t know if I want to go to business school. Maybe I ought to try science. The Examiner said—”
“Science?” Mr. Morgan’s face went hard. His brows pulled together in a frown. “Science? What good is that? Spend the rest of your life in some dumb university, teaching kids useless stuff? No, that’s not for you.”
“But it’s what I like best. The Examiner said—”
“I was there!” His father’s voice got louder. “I heard what he said. He said he’d recommend engineering, not science. But I’m telling you that you’re going into business. That’s where the money is.”
