Collected short stories, p.187
Collected Short Stories, page 187
couldn't help but stare at the thing.
"What do you think?" he repeated.
It had a cob that wasn't a cob. It was made from bits of smooth glass, each bit
looking more like an eye than a kernel. The plant itself was painted black, and
some kind of wiring was sewn into the stalk. Its roots weren't roots, either.
They looked like worms or muscular tendrils. Scrap plastic and pounded metal had
been shaped to make it seem that the plant was moving, walking on its roots. And
its leaves were thick and wrong-shaped, reminding me of stubby arms.
A lot of arms, I was thinking.
"I wish I'd done a better job," said the old farmer. "I wish I was a stronger
artist."
Except it wasn't bad. I mean, forced to look, I had a real feeling for the
thing. I was impressed enough that I almost said so, catching my tongue just as
we started rolling again.
Multhiford didn't bother with headlights. He had us on the county road, keeping
it slow. Toward town, but never fast. I could see the town's lights in the
distance, and I watched the field passing on my right. There wasn't any better
corn in the world, I was thinking. Madman or not, Multhiford always planted the
best hybrid, always on the perfect days, and all at once I was thinking about
him and his noise about the future ... thinking my own crazy thoughts ... and I
realized we were coasting, the farmer's boot off the pedal and him asking, "What
if people could travel in time? I don't know how. Maybe we'd have to hammer
together some dead stars, or build some wormhole do-dad. But what if we could?"
I wouldn't look at him. I made up my mind, watching the field, staring out at
the blurring rows.
"People might visit our hunting ancestors and thank them. Pay homage, we could.
It would be a religious event, and we'd select only our finest, holiest pilgrims
for the honor."
I didn't look at him, but my resolve was slipping. The rows were crawling past
as we ground to a halt. I felt my heart pounding, not fast but each beat like an
explosion.
"Our finest pilgrims," he said again.
It wasn't a light that I saw over the field. It had no color and made no
shadows, and it didn't even have a real shape that I can name. But inside it
were motions, energies. Without deciding to move, I opened my door and jumped
down, gravel crunching under me. Then with a calm dry voice, Multhiford said,
"Go on." He reached clear over to touch me, saying, "They're expecting you.
Hurry on."
I ran. Before I could get scared, I shot across the roadside ditch and into the
field. I wasn't even running, it was more like flying, everything dreamy and
slow. Leaves slapped my face. I lost sight of my target. Then, just when I
thought I was lost, I felt a presence, electric and close, and the air tasted of
comet soils and perfect manures, working machinery and some kind of vibrant,
tireless life.
The ground under me was covered with gently flattened cornstalks.
For the third time in a night, I fell; and when I tried to get up I had hands
grabbing at me, holding me down while voices sang, speaking just to me. The
voices knew my name. There wasn't anything they didn't know about me. From the
ends of time they told me as much, then whispered, "Be at ease." A million
pilgrim voices sang, "John, be at ease."
I tried to obey, roots swirling past my nose.
Stalks of every color, thick and thin, crowded around me, leaving no room for
air.
I tried speaking.
Before I could, they said, "Quiet. Quiet, quiet."
I kept perfectly silent.
Then they broke into a shared song, dry leathery leaf-limbs rolling me onto my
back, giving me a larger view. The pilgrims were tall, too tall to measure,
stretching into a sky full of messy colors and countless stars and swift bright
ships of no particular shape; and the song deafened me, cutting through my
saturated brain; and finally, after a million years of listening, my eyes closed
and I fell asleep. Or unconscious. Or maybe, just for a moment, I died.
I woke when someone shook me.
It was Mr. Multhiford's hand on my shoulder, and it was his voice saying,
"Almost morning, John."
I smelled normal green corn. The farmer above me was framed by the brightening
sky. Three times I tried to sit up, then he helped me with my fourth try,
bringing me to my feet.
"Some evening," was his verdict. "Wouldn't you agree?"
I couldn't even speak.
"I've been where you were," he confessed. '"Once. Just once." He let those words
work on me for a moment, then added, "Believe me. All you need is one time."
"But why?" I managed, making my parched throat work.
"Why us ?" A big shrug, then he said, "They like us. With me, they get a damned
fine farmer who keeps their secrets. With you? They see someone who's going to
do something good for them. I don't know what exactly. I don't know when. But
they told me about you --"
"Told you?"
"Years and years ago," he said, laughing again. "They tell you something once,
believe me, you remember."
"What else did they tell you?"
"Next year is dry, and there's an early frost. For instance." He looked off into
the distance, then added, "In twelve years, plus a few weeks, my heart gives out
and I die."
"You know that?" I whispered.
He shrugged his shoulders as if saying, "So what?" Then he pointed, asking, "Do
you see that bent stalk over there, John? Well, you and I both know it's real.
It exists. It occupies a place and doesn't need us touching it to make it what
it is."
"I guess not "
"Look back through time, and there's the past. There's me planting my corn, and
you drinking beer with your pals. It's every instant of our lives, good and not,
and lives like that can't be killed. Not by heart attacks, at least." He gave me
a big wink, then added, "That's the best thing they ever told me, John. We're
always here, always living this life." A big happy smile, and he said, "So do it
right. Live as though you'll always live it, because you will be. Because that's
just the way these things are."
We rode into town without talking, nothing worthwhile left to say.
Early risers saw us together, and they stared. When we pulled up in front of my
house, Dad practically exploded from the front door, and when I climbed down he
screamed at me and hugged me and gave me a sloppy wet kiss on the cheek. He'd
just gotten off the phone with Charlie. He thought he knew the story. "I'm so
furious with you," he told me, never looking happier. Then he glanced at Mr.
Multhiford, saying, "Something awful might have happened." But he showed no
malice toward the farmer, either. And then Mr. Multhiford drove away, without so
much as a goodbye wave, and I was left to suffer a couple more hugs, then the
unrestrained affections of my sister and weepy mom.
They thought they knew. Vandalism. Gunfire. And I was missing, presumed wounded.
Maybe dead.
Feeling halfway dead, I went inside to eat and shower and put on some good
clothes. Dad left for early service. I made it to the eleven o'clock service,
finding the guys waiting for me on the front lawn. It was Charlie who told me
that they'd just come from Multhiford's, and did I know there was a new circle?
I gave a little nod and the beginnings of a smile.
"He caught you and made you pound it out," said Charlie.
"Is that what happened?" asked Lester.
"I bet it is," said Pat.
We were all dressed for church, standing in a knot, watching people streaming
inside. After a few seconds, I said, "That's it exactly. He made me pound it
out."
"How's he make them?" Charlie wanted to know. "With boards and rope? Like we
figured?"
"Yeah," I told them. "We were right."
"So now we know," Charlie declared, almost as happy as Dad. "It makes last night
worth it, huh? Getting shot at. Being chased. We sure as hell worried about you,
let me tell you."
I didn't say anything.
"After church," he said, "come over to my place. Help us finish off last night's
beer."
Lester and Pat made agreeable sounds, punching me in the arm.
I still hadn't answered when Dad came outside, heading straight for me. The guys
scattered in something just short of panic. Oh, well. From where I was standing
I could see the edge of town, green fields stretching around the world; and just
then, just for a moment, little snatches of the future became clear in my head.
I saw myself in college. I saw myself grown up, changing the shapes of living
molecules. Making new kinds of corn....
To the corn, I'm famous.
"This afternoon," said Dad, '"We'll discuss your punishment."
I blinked and turned toward him, saying, "Fine."
Then he hugged me hard once again. For a long time. People were watching, but I
didn't care. I stood there and took it, only squirming a little bit, and I even
came close to admitting how good that hug -- and everything -- felt just then.
Know what I mean?
ROBERT REED
THE TOURNAMENT
The round of 1 048 576 The Net calls everyone it selects. That's the rule.
Always at five in the afternoon, Eastern Double-Daylight Time. Always on the
Friday before June's first Monday, the bulk of the month reserved for little
else. More than a million phones sing out at once, their owners picking up as
one, nervously hoping to hear the Net's cool, unruffled voice giving them the
glorious news. Another Tournament is at hand! The best of our citizens will be
pitted against each other, in a myriad of contests, the single-elimination
adventure culminating in honor, wealth and an incandescent and genuinely
deserved fame.
Some contestants like being with friends when the call comes. Not me. Bette
claims I'm scared of being embarrassed by a silent phone. Maybe so. But I think
it's because my first call was a surprise, coming when I was a kid -barely
eighteen-- and expecting nothing. I'm at least as superstitious as the next
idiot, I'll admit it. And I was alone that first time as well as every time
since. This is my seventeenth Tournament; I like my atmosphere of anxious
solitude, thank you. And I won't change one damned thing.
Five o'clock. My phone sings, and my hands shake. Opening the line, I watch my
viewing wall fill with the Net's milk-on-jade symbol, and the expected voice
says, "Hello, Mr. Avery Masters. You are ranked 20,008 in the national pool,
forty-seventh in your district. Congratulations, sir. Details will follow, and
as always, the best of luck to you."
"Thanks," I manage, breaking into a smile. Forty-seventh is my best local
ranking ever, but in truth, I'd hoped for better. My training has been going
great; all my qualifying tests are up. But then again, who's to bitch? Positive
thoughts, positive results. That's what coaches tell you. With that in mind, I
brighten my smile, reading about Monday's opponent.
Ms. June Harryman -- a district legend. She's deep in her eighties, both hips
plastic and a carbon rod fused to a regenerated spine. She's made fifty-one
appearances in the Tournament, including its very first year, and while she
never finishes high, she's always there, always full of pluck, always garnering
local praise and national mention.
No, I think, I can't ignore the lady.
Don't look past tomorrow, coaches tell you. Even if tomorrow isn't for three
days.
Our morning event is a 10K race, and the Net has given Ms. Harryman a
twenty-five minute head start. That's a brutal lead, I'm thinking. It's probably
as much for her hips as her age. Then comes our afternoon game--some kind of
puzzle; that's all I'm told-- and in the evening, in a tiny studio not ten
minutes from my apartment, we'll go toe-to-toe in U.S. geography.
I bet the old gal knows a lot of geography. What could be worse, I'm thinking,
than being knocked out in the opening round by some low-rank half-artificial
grandmother?
When the phone rings again, I mute it. It's probably Bette calling to
congratulate me, then tease me about my opponent. Except I'm not in the mood to
be teased. Just to feel confident, I start naming state capitals. And I forget
Guam's, which puts me into a panic. I'm taking a refresher course when Bette
arrives -- a breasty, big-hipped woman strolling into my apartment without
sound. I barely notice her as she turns through dozens of sports channels,
finally finding what she wants on the Net and cranking up the volume until my
ears hurt.
"According to friends," says a well-groomed reporter, "she felt chest pains as
she reached for the phone. It was five o'clock exactly." A lean, white-haired
woman hovers over his shoulder. Ms. June Harryman. "An artificial heart is being
implanted --"
"What?" I cry out.
"-- with Ms. Harryman's long-term prospects deemed excellent."
"Didn't you know?" Bette's round face smiles, thoroughly amused. "Hasn't it told
you?"
It means the Net, which has to know. The Net handles emergency calls, controls
every autodoc, and identifies consequences in an instant. Of course it knows.
A light blinks on my console. Punching the button, I hear:
"Mr. Masters, you have a bye for next Monday." Infinitely patient and incapable
of amusement, the voice gives no sign of being impressed with my remarkable
luck. "Enjoy your weekend, sir. And we'll see you on Tuesday morning." 524 288
Reach the first round, and you're guaranteed a few dollars. It doesn't pay for a
cheap treadmill or two hours of forced hypnosis, but it's a wage, and for some
people it's all they want. The illusion of being professional, that sort of
thing.
Payoffs accelerate slowly at first; you need to get out of the first week before
you earn a living wage. Win your district -- my goal of goals--and you'll have a
comfortable life. But then come the regionals and the authentic wealth. And if
you can defeat all twenty of your opponents -- one of us does that trick every
year-- the Net awards you a billion dollars, tax-free, then transmits to you
every congratulation from every one of your forgotten cousins.
Bette says the Tournament is silly. She says that a happy, wealth y nation needs
better obsessions. But I don't take her teasing too seriously; I'm naturally
confident and self-assured, I hope. And besides, she lets me tease her in turn.
I like telling her she's one of those stuffy souls who pretend outrage, knowing
they lack the talents needed to win. "Poor Bette," [ say, 'without mercy. "Poor,
poor Bette."
I make a fair living with these June competitions. Then for the rest of my year
I'm in training, always preparing, always working my body and mind into shape
for next year's shot at immortality.
After Tuesday's competition, Bette calls to congratulate me.
"Did you watch?" I ask.
"No," she lies. "I just saw your name posted, that's all."
It was my first day of real competition, and I'm already among the last quarter
million contestants. Today's opponent was a man-child, a giant built of muscle
and sinew, and for the morning's contest I was the one awarded handicap points.
That's how the Net keeps things interesting. It has files on our body types,
muscle types, age and general physiology, and the formulas it uses have served
well for half a century. Even with my handicap points, I was behind at
lunchtime, the man-child lifting a mountain of iron over his bony brow. But in
the afternoon, sitting in a VR booth, I piloted my biplane in combat, downing
dozens of enemy craft and taking a healthy lead into this evening.
Bette tells me, "I didn't know you were such an expert in algebra."
"So you watched, did you?"
"Me? Never." Her face covers my wall; she doesn't bother softening it with a
vanity program. "That was pretty cocky of you, telling that kid to lift
quadratic equations for a change."
"You did see it," I shout.
She says, "Never."
She tells me, "I just hear the gossip, that's all."
I yawn, then say, "Bette, you know the rules."
"You need your rest. I know." But before she vanishes, she says, "I just wanted
to tell you, I've got a feeling about this year."
"What feeling?" I ask, trying not to seem too curious.
A wink, an amused grin. Then she says, "Never mind." She waves me off, saying,
"You need sleep, and never mind." 262 144
I wake from a dream where I'm throwing basketballs in neat arcs, each one
dropping through a hoop tinier than a bracelet.
Some competitors pay big money for implanted dreams.
This dream is genuine, which makes it feel like an omen.
