The result was that a child of the next generation might have, in addition to his mother and father, a half-dozen surviving relatives who were eldsters. A married couple might have ten or fifteen older relatives, all of them alone in the world, looking to their only younger kin. There could be no question of this aging horde moving in with the present generation who had neither room for them nor money to support them. They were a government burden and would remain so. A decreasing burden that required less money every year as old machinery, despite the wonders of medicine, finally ran down. When the new cities were being designed for the future, scientifically planned generations, the wise decision had been made to move the eldsters into them first. The best of food, care, and medicine could be provided with the minimum effort and expense. Life in the older cities would be happier, relieved of the weight of the solid block of aging citizenry. And since the geriatric drugs didn't seem to work too well past the middle of the second century, a timetable could be established for what was euphemistically called phasing out. Dying was a word no one liked to use. So as the present inhabitants were phased out to the phasing place of their choice, the growing generations would move in. All neat. All tidy. As long as you stayed away from the eldster floors.
Looking straight ahead, Gust went swiftly along the streetlike corridor, ignoring the steam, rooms and bathing rooms, tropical gardens and sandy beaches, that opened off to either side. And the people. The next bank of elevators was a welcome sight, and this time he was very clearly enunciated "Tit-tee" as the door closed.
When he reached the end of the unfinished corridor the work shift was just going off duty. The flooring terminated here, and ahead was just the rough gray of raw cement still showing the mold marks where it had been cast in place; the floodlights stood high on wiry legs.
"Been having trouble with the squatter, Mr. Crabb," the shift boss complained. These men had grown up in a world of smoothly operating machines and were hurt when they occasionally proved fallible.
"I'll take a look at it. Anything in the hopper?"
"Half full. Should I empty it out?"
"No, leave it. I'll try a run before I call maintenance."
As the motors on the machines were turned off one by one, an echoing silence fell on the immense and cavernlike area. The men went away, their footsteps loud, calling to each other, until Gust was alone. He climbed the ladder to the top of the hulking squatter and unlocked the computer controls. When he typed a quick condition query the readout revealed nothing wrong. These semi-intelligent machines could analyze most of their own troubles and deliver warnings, but there were still occasional failures beyond their capacity to handle or even recognize. Gust closed the computer and pressed the power button.
There was a far-off rumble and the great bulk of the machine shuddered as it came to life. Most of the indicator lights blinked on red, turning swiftly to green as the motors came up to speed. When the operation-ready light also turned green he squinted at the right-hand television screen, which showed the floor level buried under the squatter. The newly laid flooring ended abruptly where the machine had stopped. He backed it a few feet so the sensors could come into operation, then started it forward again at the crawling pace of working speed. As soon as the edge was reached the laying began again. The machine guided itself and controlled the mix and pouring. About all the operator had to do was turn the entire apparatus on and off. Gust watched the hypnotically smooth flow of new floor appear and could see nothing wrong. It was pleasant here, doing a simple yet important job like this.
A warning buzzer sounded and a light began flashing red on the controls. He blinked and had a quick glimpse of something black on the screen before it moved swiftly out of sight. He stopped the forward motion and put the squatter into reverse again, backing the huge mass a good ten feet before killing all the power and climbing back down. The newly laid plastic flooring was still hot under his feet and he trod gingerly almost up to the forward edge. There was a cavity in the flooring here, like a bowl or a bubble a foot wide. As though the machine had burped while spewing out its flow. Perhaps it had. The technicians would set it right. He made a note to call them in his pocket pad, killed all except the standby lights, then went back to the elevators. Calling out his floor number very carefully.
Dr. Livermore and Leatha were bent over a worktable in the lab, heads lowered as though at a wake. As perhaps they were. Gust came in quietly, listening, not wanting to interrupt.
"There were some of the most promising new strains here," Leatha said. "The Reilly-Stone in particular. I don't know how much computer time was used in the preliminary selection, but the technicians must have put in a hundred hours on this fertilized ovum alone."
"Isn't that a little unusual?" Livermore asked.
"I imagine so, but it was the first application of the Bershock multiple-division cross-trait selection, and you know how those things go."
"I do indeed. It will be easier the next time. Send the records back noting the failures. Get them started on replacements. Hello, Gust, I didn't hear you come in."
"I didn't want to bother you."
"No bother. We are finished in any case. Had some bottle failures today."
"So I heard. Do you know why?"
"If I knew everything, I would be God, wouldn't I?"
Leatha looked at the old man, shocked. "But Doctor, we do know why the embryos were killed. The valve failed on the input—"
"But why did the valve fail? There are reasons beyond reasons in everything."
"We're going to Old Town, Doctor.” Gust said, uncomfortable with this kind of abstract conversation and eager to change the subject.
"Don't let me stop you. Don't bring back any infections, hear?"
Livermore turned to leave, but the door opened before he reached it. A man stood there, looking at them without speaking. He entered, and the silence and the severe set of his features struck them silent as well. When the door had closed behind him he called their names in a deep voice, looking at each of them in turn as he spoke.
"Dr. Livermore, Leatha Crabb, Gust Crabb. I am here to see you. My name is Blalock."
It was clear that Livermore did not enjoy being addressed in this manner. "Call my secretary for an appointment. I'm busy now." He started to leave, but Blalock raised his hand, at the same time taking a thin wallet from his pocket.
"I would like to see you now, Doctor. This is my identification."
Livermore could not have left without pushing the man aside. He stopped and blinked at the golden badge.
"FBI. What on earth are you after here?"
"A killer." A stunned silence followed. "I can tell you now, though I would appreciate your not telling anyone else, that one of the technicians working here is an agent from the bureau. He makes regular reports to Washington about conditions on the project."
"Meddling and spying!" Livermore was angry.
"Not at all. The government has a large investment here and believes in protecting this and in guarding the taxpayers' money. You have had a number of bottle failures here in the first weeks after implanting."
"Accidents, just accidents," Leatha said, then flushed and was silent when Blalock turned his cold, unsmiling gaze on her.
"Are they? We don't think so. There are four other New Towns in the United States, all of them with projects working along the same lines as yours. They have had bottle failures as well, but not in the numbers you have here."