"Sounds more like circumstantial evidence, not facts, to me. Are you planning to bring these figures out in a public hearing or trial or whatever you call it?"
"I am."
"Then your figures will also show the unconscious and conscious discrimination that is being practiced by the genetic-selection techniques now being used, because it will reveal just how many of these minority groups are not being represented in the selection."
"I know nothing about that."
"Well, I do. With these facts in mind I then admit to all the acts you have accused me of. I did it all."
A shocked silence followed his words. Catherine Ruffin shook her head, trying to understand.
"Why? I don't understand why you did it," she said.
"Still, Catherine? I thought you were more intelligent than that. I did everything within my power to change the errant policies of this board and all the other boards throughout the country. I got exactly nowhere. With natural childbirth almost completely a thing of the past, the future citizens of this country will all come from the gene pool represented by the stored sperm and ova. With the selection techniques existing now, minority after minority will be eliminated, and with their elimination countless genes that we simply cannot lose will be lost forever. Perhaps a world of fair-skinned, blue-eyed, blond, and muscular Anglo-Saxon Protestants is your idea of an ideal society. It is not mine — nor is it very attractive to the tinted-skin people with the funny foreign ways, odd names, and strangely shaped noses. They deserve to survive just as much as we do and to survive right here in their country, which is the United States of America. So don't tell me about Italian and Israeli gene pools in their native lands. The only real Americans here with an original claim to that name are the American Indians, and they are being dropped out of the gene pool as well. A crime is being committed. I was aware of it and could convince no one else of its existence. Until I chose this highly dramatic way of pointing out the situation. During my coming trial these facts will be publicized, and after that the policy will have to be reexamined and changed."
"You foolish old man," Catherine Ruffin said, but the warmth in her voice belied the harshness of her words. "You've ruined yourself. You will be fined, you may go to jail, at the least you will be relieved of your position, forced into retirement. You will never work again."
"Catherine my dear, I did what I had to do. Retirement at my age holds no fears — in fact, I have been considering it and rather looking forward to it. Leave genetics and practice medicine as a hobby with my old fossils. I doubt the courts will be too hard on me. Compulsory retirement, I imagine, no more. Well worth it to get the facts out before the public."
"In that you have failed," Blalock said coldly, putting the papers together and dropping them into his case. "There will be no public trial, simply a dismissal — better for all concerned that way. Since you have admitted guilt, your superiors can make a decision in camera as to what to do."
"That's not fair!" Sturtevant said. "He only did these things to publicize what was happening. You can't take that away from him. It's not fair…"
"Fair has nothing to do with it, Mr. Sturtevant. The genetic program will continue unchanged." Blalock seemed almost ready to smile at the thought. Livermore looked at him with distaste.
"You would like that, wouldn't you? Don't rock the boat. Get rid of disloyal employees and at the same time rid this country of dissident minorities."
"You said it, Doctor, I didn't. And since you have admitted guilt, there is nothing you can do about it."
Livermore rose slowly and started from the room, turning before he reached the door.
"Quite the contrary, Blalock, because I shall insist upon a full public hearing. You have accused me of a crime before my associates, and I wish my name cleared, since I am innocent of all charges."
"It won't wash." Blalock was smiling now. "Your statement of guilt is on tape, recorded in the minutes of this meeting."
"I don't think it is. I did one final bit of sabotage earlier today. On that recorder. The tape is blank."
''That will do you no good. There are witnesses to your words."
"Are there? My two associates on the council are two committed human beings, no matter what our differences. If what I have said is true I think they will want the facts to come out. Am I right, Catherine?"
"I never heard you admit guilt, Dr. Livermore."
"Nor I," Sturtevant said. "I shall insist on a full departmental hearing to clear your name."
"See you in court, Blalock," Livermore said, and went out.
"I thought you would be at work. I didn't expect to see you here," Gust said to Leatha, who was sitting looking out of the window of their living room. "I just came back to pack a bag, take my things out.",
"Don't do that."
"I'm sorry what happened the other night, I just—"
"We'll talk about that some other time."
There was almost an embarrassed silence then, and he noticed her clothes for the first time. She was wearing a dress he had never seen before, a colorful print, sheer and low-cut. And her hair was different somehow, and her lipstick, more than she usually wore, he thought. She looked very nice, and he wondered if he should tell her that.
"Why don't we go out to that restaurant in Old Town," Leatha said. "I think that might be fun."
"It will be fun, I know it will," he answered suddenly, unreasonably, happier than he had ever been before.
Georgette Booker looked up at the clock and saw that it was almost time to quit. Good. Dave was taking her out again tonight, which meant that he would propose again. He was so sweet. She might even marry him but not now. Life was too relaxed, too much fun, and she enjoyed people. Marriage was always there when you wanted it, but right now she just didn't want it. She smiled. She was quite happy.
Sharm smiled and ate another piece of the ring-shaped roll. "Top-pit," he said. "Really good. What is it called?" "A bagel," his wife said. "You're supposed to eat them with smoked salmon and white cheese. I found it in this old cult food book. I think they're nice."
"I think they're a lot better than nice. We're going to bake a whole lot of them, and I'm going to sell them in New Town because they got bread tastes like wet paper there, and people will love them. They have to love them. Because you and I are going to move to New Town. They are going to love these bagels or something else we are going to sell them because you and I, we are going to live in that new place."
"You tell them, Sharm."
"I'm telling them. Old Sharm is going to get his cut of that good life, too."
"Mine said the same thing, so it must be like that in all the languages. Cook us up a bowl of spaghetti, will you, love? Tonight I want some good old Addis Ababa Ethiopian home cooking."
A Last Request
The year was 1999 and I was just closing this collection. I had forty-nine stories covering a full fifty years of my writing. But I needed one more. Fortuitously, I received a letter from Nature, that most prestigious of scientific journals that publishes only papers that concern the cutting edge of science research. An exception was being made this once; would I submit a work of fiction from the viewpoint of 3000 AD, looking back at some aspect of science that occurred during the third millennium. I most assuredly would — and did — and here it is. A most fitting story to close this collection with.
The Road to the Year 3000
It has certainly been an interesting third millennium. High points that spring to mind are the intergalactic wormhole expeditions — all thirteen of them. Most successful; all departed as planned.