Commune 2000 a d uc, p.7
Commune 2000 A.D. (UC), page 7
part #1 of Bat Hardin Series
He looked at the beer. "I've never seen a container like this."
She nodded brightly. "They're especially made for travelers. In the old days, somebody having a beer as he drove along would toss the cans out on the roadside. After a few decades of this the country was ass-deep in rusty beer cans. The aluminum ones were even worse; they didn't rust. The disposable plastic ones were just as bad; they'd last forever. It took years to clean up all that clutter."
Ted Swain took a bite of the chili con carne, which turned out to be not too bad.
"So now?" he said.
"So now they still throw their empty beer containers out the window. But this is plastic with a difference. A couple of days in the sun or rain and the container melts away." She took a sip appreciatively.
They finished their chili and she took up the dish it had come in and began to eat that too. Ted Swain blinked at her.
She noticed his surprise and laughed and said, "Dessert. There's evidently a lot of things developed for the mobile towns that you flats who live in pseudocities or permanent communities have never heard of."
He took a cautious bite of his own dish. Sort of a strange combination of fruit-flavored gelatin and a very hard pie crust, almost like hardtack. It wasn't too bad actually.
"Saves a lot of space when you're underway and can't get to the ultramarkets very easily," she explained.
"Ill bet it does." He switched subjects. "Look, Sue Benny, isn't there some manner in which you could realize some income from your paintings?"
She looked at him and twisted her expressive mouth. "How, for Christ's sake?"
"Well, I don't know anything about modern art. I'm an ethnologist. I specialize in the past. But surely…"
"What's an ethnologist?"
He told her.
She took their utensils, washed them quickly in the tiny sink and returned them to their drawer. She put the crackers away and gave the table a swipe with a none-too-clean towel, then sat down across from him.
She said, "You're darn tootin' you don't know anything about modern art, hombre. I can see you don't get the scenario. Here's how it works. They don't pay you anything to be an artist anymore. They've got just about every other category of work there is, in the Production Congress. Even education is a guUd. But not the arts. Take writing. Some funker writes a book and submits it to the National Data Banks. They list it a half dozen ways from Tuesday; fiction, nonfiction, poetry, or whatever. They list it by category; novel, novelette, short story, essay, or whatever. They list it by subject; a suspense story, science fiction, love romance, travel, or whatever. They list it by the author's name. And they have on tap every review written about it. There it is, in the data banks. If anybody wants to read it, they can dial it and get it on their library-booster screen."
Ted Swain said sourly, "Yeah, wizard. I've often wondered what the writer gets out of it. Why he bothers."
"Don't be a flat. He gets what any artist got, down through the ages, since the Cro-Magnons did their paintings on the walls of the caves and the tribal storyteller recited the tribal traditions and lays to those who gathered around the fire to hear him. The artist gets the acclaim of his fellow man—if he deserves it. In the past, the poor funker had to toady to others—editors, publishers and eventually readers—in order to make an income. Now he writes what he damn well pleases. He gets his Universal Guaranteed Income, just as much as does anyone else, and he kisses nobody's, but nobody's, ass. Why, back in the Middle Ages an artist of any type, who wasn't wealthy himself, had to get a wealthy patron to support him; Leonardo and Michelangelo, among artists, Machiavelli and Dante among other writers. Can you imagine what that meant, licking the boots of those half-assed aristocrats, so you could eat?"
"Well, I more or less understand the writer in present society, but how about the painter?"
"Much the same thing. I think it started in France, back in the 1960s or so. Some bright-eyed type came up with a new system of duplicating paintings. The thing was, though, you couldn't paint on canvas or paper, or whatever. You had to paint on Presdwood-duplicator board and you had to paint with quick-drying, metallic acrylic paint.
"All right. Today, an artist does his thing and submits it to the National Data Banks. Like a writer's work, it is listed and crosslisted. Name of the painter, school of painting, type of painting, portrait, landscape, abstract, or whatever. They even list it by the size of the painting. And they list whatever comments the painting receives from the critics. All right. If anybody is interested they take a look at it on their library-booster screen. If the interest continues, they buy a copy. It costs practically nothing. Just the expense of turning out one more copy."
She went over to her autobar and dialed two more drinks, then brought them back. They were in cordial glasses.
Ted said, "I've already had four drinks today and it's only a little past noon."
"This is Khalua, from Mexico. One of the top half dozen liqueurs in the world. Drink up; you'll need it when I get you into bed."
He took it and sipped. It was obviously based on coffee and was delicious. He had never heard of it before.
He said, "Yes, that's all very fine. But how about the original? The only paintings I have in my house I inherited from my parents. They're all originals. Don't some people prefer to have the original, rather than a reproduction?"
"What original?" she said. "These so-called reproductions are identical to the painting the artist made. Not even he can tell the difference. I mean, they really reproduce them."
"Oh," he said. "As I told you, I'm a specialist in ethnology. American Indians; ultimate subspecialization, the Aztecs at the time of the Spanish Conquest. Possibly, some day, the way things are going, I'll have to add a subspecialization to that. But as it stands now, I know everything about the Aztecs that there is to know. I wish I could spend some time down there, discovering some new data. At any rate, that's my field. I'm at sea when it comes to your field."
She said, "You ought to come along with us."
"How do you mean?"
"Didn't Bat Hardin tell you? We're treking all the way down through Latin America. One of the big reasons is that a large percentage of our artists want to paint, sculpt or write about the Indian civilizations. The Aztecs, the Mayans, further down, the Incas, in Peru. If you came along you'd be a wealth of background. You'd be able to tell us what to look for, explain what we see, that sort of razzle."
"You know, you tempt me," he said. "However, I've finally gotten my big chance. I'll be able to get my degree and teach, or hold down some other job in the field. Your friend, Bat, makes a pretty good argument for an artist not working in the world as it is, but it doesn't apply to me. I want to do my share."
"Let's get this show on the road," she said. "I want to get back to my painting."
She led the way back into the bedroom, at the far end of her mobile home. It was surprisingly large considering that it was in a trailer. Large, with a double bed and a connecting bath that had a tub as well as a shower. It would seem that the clutter of the front room was not allowed in the bedroom. The decor was feminine and neat.
She turned and faced him, a slight smile on her face as she automated the zip at the side of her shorts and let them fall away. She had a surprisingly large thatch of fine golden pubic hair.
She said, "Well, like me?"
"Yes." His voice was slightly hoarse.
She stepped closer to him and looked full into his eyes as she fumbled with his kilts. "How do you get these damn things off?"
Together they undressed him. She sat back on the bed and for a moment he stood there, looking down at her. She said, "Zoroaster, what a wizard of a tool. How long's it been hard like that?"
"Practically since I first met you."
"What a way to go through a meal," she said sardonically. She looked up into his face, her eyes sleepy and sensual. "Want me to kiss it?"
"Of course," he said. His voice was really hoarse now.
"Then step closer."
He stepped closer and closed his eyes in an agony of pleasure. "For me, this is best when it's mutual."
"All right," she said, falling back on the bed and making room for him to stretch out beside her, head to feet.
Later on, when sex had become meaningless, they laid on their backs, staring up at the ceiling.
Sue Benny said, "Like a pot cigarette?"
"Do you have any hashish fudge or marmalade?"
"No, just cigarettes."
"No, thanks."
"I should have had one before you started to poke me. I like to be a bit high when I get poked."
He said, out of a clear sky, "Have you ever read any of the older novels? Those set back in the middle of the last century, or, even more so, before the First World War?"
"Sure. Gone With the Wind, and all. I was a great reader when I was a kid. Especially romances."
He said musingly, "Remember how they dealt with sex, with the relationships between men and women in general?"
Her laugh was more like a giggle. "Yeah, it was a real razzle. Sometimes the sexiest they'd get would be for the hombre to kiss her once in the last chapter."
"As an anthropologist, I sometimes wonder how the big change came about. How, and when, for that matter."
"No big question about that," she said. "And for that matter I wonder just how big the change really was. I sometimes suspect that there was always just about as much poking going on then as there is now. They simply hid it."
He shook his head. "No. No, there wasn't. For one thing, it was harder for young people to get together, even if that's what they had in mind. I suppose the coming of the automobile was the first big breakthrough. It allowed the kids to drive out and get into each other's pants."
"I would have said the coming of the early pills and other birth-control devices that really worked. All of a sudden a girl didn't have to worry about being knocked up and a boy didn't have to be worried about having to marry the girl he'd gotten an occasional piece of ass from."
"How about Women's Lib?"
"That too. From then on in, there was less and less of the Victorian-period crud about women being the weaker and more modest sex." She laughed again. "They really began poking in earnest."
He said, "Then the reversal of censorship. The legalization of what they used to call 'pornography.' All of a sudden the kids could find out exactly what it was all about, and obviously wanted to try it immediately."
She stirred her body luxuriously. "Imagine what it was like in the old days to be physically able to poke when you were about thirteen and then not getting an opportunity to do it, at least to any extent, until you were in your early twenties. Ten damn years shot to hell! I'm surprised they weren't all driven drivel-happy."
Sue Benny looked over at her bedmate. "For Christ's sake, are you one of these hombres who gets a stiffy just talking about it?"
"Mind?"
"No. Got any more fancy ideas? To hell with my painting."
An hour later, they were really satiated.
Sue Benny said, "Look, what were you going to be doing for the rest of the day, Paul Bunyan?"
"Bunyan? The name's Ted Swain."
"You haven't done as much reading as you put up to have. Paul Bunyan was a legendary lumberjack. He could do anything, twenty times over what any other man could."
Ted pretended to groan. "Twenty times! Don't you ever tire, woman?"
"Seldom. That's why I like you. You pull half a dozen orgasms out of a mopsy while you're having one. I haven't come so much in my life. What did you plan to do for the rest of the day?"
"I thought I'd be able to check out at least one more commune."
"Too late. Why don't you stay here for the night, and find out more about this one? We could eat over at the autocafeteria. They've got a wizard of a one on this site."
He sighed. "You just talked me into it."
Chapter Nine
Ted Swain had forgotten to dismiss his electrosteamer the night before. Not that it was important. The rental on cars was low, and his credit account was healthy, usually healthy; as a full-time scholar he had few extravagances. Nevertheless, as a rule he made a point of returning a vehicle when he wasn't actually using it. It kept down vehicle congestion. It was one of the big breakthroughs that the new society had inaugurated. In the old days, when most cars were privately owned, the majority of them spent at least three quarters of their time parked in garages or on the steets. Each family had one, two, or even three. The country had been ass-deep in cars. Now, when you had need, you summoned one; a two-seater, if there was but one or two of you wanting transportation, a sedan if there were three to six, a minibus for groups, or an even larger vehicle, if required. And when you were through with it, you dismissed it to return automatically to the nearest autopark and garage. Whatever you summoned, it was always in top repair.
He was about to climb into his electrosteamer, his mind still dwelling on the pleasures of Sue Benny, when Mike Latimer drove up and parked beside him.
The news commentator seemed equally surprised to see Ted Swain. He said, "What in the name of holy
Zoroaster are you doing here, this early in the morning?"
Ted said, "The early bird catches the worm."
"Wizard, but who likes worms?"
Ted came over and leaned on the side of Latimer's vehicle. "I've started my probe into the communes. This is one of the first."
Mike said, "Actually, I came around to see if I could pick up an item for the broadcast. You know, Mobile Art Colony Shaping Up For South American Safari. You've obviously spent the night. What do you think of the layout?"
Ted Swain considered the question. "Well, for one thing, do you realize that not a single person in this commune works? At least, not in regular industry. They're all either on Universal Guaranteed Income, or are sponging on others who are. And now they're removing themselves from the country. Even if one was called up at the next muster, he'd simply drop out and live off the community."
Mike Latimer thought about it. "As far back as the 1960s, Richard Bellman of the Rand Corporation upped with the belief that two percent of the working force would be able to produce all that the country could consume by the year 2000. And now, here we are. We don't need these dropouts. If they want to take off for South America, why, let 'em go."
"It's nearer to ten percent, isn't it?"
"Something like that. But the majority of people employed today are in make-work jobs. Not really necessary. Something like featherbedding in the old days." He thought about it some more. "I sometimes wonder why people like myself bother to compete for a job. If the computers select you on muster day, you don't get much more pay than those unemployed."
"You're not reading the script," Ted Swain said. "It's a compulsion. Here I am in my thirties. Since childhood I've been goosed along the path of my latent abilities. My biggest interest in life is ethnology. I want to participate in the field so badly I can taste it. I want
a job. I'm frustrated because I can't get one. The same must apply to you, but you've found fulfillment. You've got a job in the field you love."
"Yeah, I suppose so," Mike Latimer admitted. "Look, I've been thinking about this dissertation of yours and came up with a few more communes in this area. Have you heard about New Athens?"
"Don't believe so."
"Not far away. Over near Lake Hill. They're all athletes. Interested in practically nothing but body building and sports. Come to think of it, I ought to run over there and check them out. Make an interesting item. Then there's Jissom."
"Jissom?" Ted Swain snorted. "Why don't they just call the place 'cum'?"
Mike ignored him. "It's a youth commune, located near Bearsville. Nobody over thirty. Rumor is that they're drug-culture types. Not only pot, but evidently from time to time they send one of their number down to Mexico to get in a supply of sacred mushrooms. Somebody told me they were trying to make contact with Peru to get coca leaves. What kind of a razzle is chewing coca?"
Ted drew on his knowledge as an anthropologist. "Goes back to Inca times. Cocaine is derived from coca. Actually, though, coca isn't addictive. It's a stimulant, but not really a narcotic. Jissom, eh? I suppose I ought to put it on my list. Well, I guess I'll shove off. Look up the town cop, Bat Hardin. Nice guy. Stay away from Sue Benny Voss. She's my girl."
Mike Latimer shook his head. "I don't know how you do it. You're as ugly as a pig, and you get more ass than anybody I know."
Ted said, with considerable dignity, "I resemble that remark."
Mike began climbing out of his car as Ted got into his. "See you later," Latimer said. "Sue Benny, eh? Sue Benny. If she'll put out for you, she'll put out for anybody."
On his way back to his home in West Hurley, Ted Swain continued to mull over his situation. In actuality, he was surprised that Englebrecht had come up with the assignment. It was not to the advantage of the old boy to see created too many new academicians in his own field, since only from their ranks could he be bounced, if he were bounced. Ted had suspected for years that the other had been actually blocking his achievement of the degree. But now this.
Getting bounced from your position applied particularly in those fields where human knowledge was developing most rapidly. As far back as the middle of the 1950s, the physicist Robert Oppenheimer had pointed out that human knowledge was doubling every eight years. This in turn meant that the education with which you emerged from had a half-life of four years. That is, in four years half of everything you had learned was antiquated, and you were obviously on the scrap heap unless you returned to the university and took refresher courses, or, as an alternative, studied for a few hours each day at home.
The physical sciences were the worst. You had to run as desperately as Alice in Looking-Glass country, just to keep up with where you were. But the social sciences were different and it was there that Englebrecht had his edge. Social sciences didn't evolve in such a geometric progression. Evolve, yes, but at not such a breakneck speed. In archaeology, for instance, some great breakthroughs might come, such as carbon dating, and later even more accurate dating processes, and revolutionize knowledge of past cultures, but largely it was a more plodding affair. And certainly when you achieved the rarified heights of the field held by Franz Englebrecht, your experience and entrenched position in your genre went far toward negating the A.Q.'s of the youngsters coming up.
