Thaxton poured himself more wine. “A spot more of this and I will be having a good time.”
Dalton laughed.
Two strange-looking creatures were shown to the next table. They looked like gargoyles come to life. One of them looked over and squawked something that sounded friendly.
“Good afternoon! Nice to see you,” Dalton answered brightly.
Thaxton managed a thin smile. “NOSD, those two,” he murmured.
“Eh?”
“‘Not Our Species, Dear.’”
“I wonder if they’d be up for a foursome.”
“With my luck, they’re probably both scratch players.”
“My handicap is nothing to write home about, either, but it might be interesting.”
Dalton’s entrée was served.
“Very good indeed,” he pronounced. “These wild mushrooms provide just the right accent.”
The meal progressed. The wine flowed; the second bottle emptied. More Château Avernus was ordered.
A while later the room began to shake. Wine bottles fell over and the windows rattled. A piece of ceiling fell to the floor very near.
Glassy-eyed and smiling, Thaxton looked around. “If I weren’t so drunk I’d be frightened out of my wits.”
Dalton said thickly, “D’you think we should … make a run for it?”
“Yes, let’s.”
They both had a hard time getting up. Thaxton picked up the full bottle.
“Get your clubs, old boy,” Dalton said.
“Right.” Teetering, Thaxton picked up his golf bag.
With a resounding crash, part of the ceiling collapsed, and a portion of the far wall gave way. Debris cascaded down. After the dust cleared, half the room lay buried in rubble.
“Dalton, old boy. You all right?”
Dalton sat up and brushed himself off. “I think. We had better get outdoors fast, wouldn’t you say?”
“Having a spot of trouble. Leg’s stuck under this bit of concrete, here.”
“Let’s see if we can move it.”
Dalton squatted and put his weight against the mass but stopped when he saw Thaxton wince. He searched around, found nothing suitable, and so used his two-iron as a lever, attacking the job from the other side. The club bent, but the chunk of ceiling lifted enough so that Thaxton could get his leg out from under it.
Dalton helped him up. “Can you walk?”
“I can hobble.”
“Need help?”
“I’ll manage. Give me that iron.”
“Here. Are you sure?”
“I’ve got the wine. Don’t forget the clubs, old boy.”
They picked their way toward a ragged opening in the wall.
“Bit of luck, this,” Thaxton said.
“How so?”
“I was wondering how we were going to get out of paying the bill. Don’t have a farthing on me.”
Fourteen
City
There was little to orientation. He was not subjected to political indoctrination or any long harangues; there was no orientation per se. He was simply issued clothing — an all-weather coat with baggy trousers — and a sheet of paper with some instructions on it. The instructions said to report to a certain address, his new residence. He was to remain there until he was issued new instructions, which he would receive via his apartment communication screen. That, along with more slogans, was all there was.
TO LOVE IS TO OBEY
GOOD CITIZENS ARE HAPPY CITIZENS
DUTY LIES WITHIN
Banners with slogans draped every building facade, hung from every cornice. He walked the streets reading posters in storefront windows and on kiosks. He could not get a sense of who was running things. There were no giant blowups of some dictatorial face, no direct references to a political party or revolutionary cabal.
The people he passed were all smiling, hurrying to some duty or another. It was a strange smile, somehow detached from or irrelevant to any real sense of well-being. It was not forced, yet not quite real.
He stopped to ask directions of a traffic director — not a policeman; the man wore only a white brassard and was unarmed. The man told him to take an omnibus with a certain number and to get off at Complex 502 on the Boulevard of Social Concern.
“Put a smile on your face,” the man told him.
Ignoring the order, he walked on.
It was not long before the first pangs of nausea began. He forced a smile, and his stomach rumbled, then quieted. He felt better instantly. Justice was that speedy. His own body was judge and jury, and its verdict was not open to appeal.
There were few stores or shops. Most storefronts were boarded up or had their windows used as billboards. Here and there a door was open, no sign above saying what was going on inside. He stopped at one such place and found a store with a few undifferentiated shoes in bins. Another store offered socks and underwear. There wasn’t much stock in any store he visited. The places looked ransacked, and no salespeople were about. He continued walking.
Traffic was limited to trucks, buses, and official-looking vehicles. No bicycles or powered two-wheeled conveyances. The sidewalks were crowded, as they would be on any workday in any universe. This was downtown, the area between the rivers that he knew as the Golden Triangle. There were hundreds of office buildings and thousands of workers. Everyone was dressed pretty much as he was, in the same utilitarian outfit.
He passed what looked like a restaurant. He went back and looked in the window. The place was actually a cafeteria. His stomach had calmed down and he was hungry. Very hungry. His instructions had not told him about food or about getting it, and he had no money.
Yet he went in. It was midmorning and there were no lines. He watched a woman at the counter load her tray and walk to a table. He could see no checkout station, no cashier. He decided to take a chance. He took a tray and slid it along the runner.
Nothing looked very good. He passed green gelatin and wilted salads. Farther along an attendant was ladling what looked like chicken stew into a container. He asked for some of that, and got a small bowlful. He took slices of bread and a cup of what appeared to be custard or vanilla pudding. There was little else to choose from. He got himself coffee but no cream, as that commodity was not in evidence. No sugar, either. He found a seat.
The stew, if that’s what it was, was awful, tasting of flour paste and unidentifiable flavorings. The vegetables were tasteless, and the “meat” was not chicken but something like bean curd, and just as unappetizing. He forced it down. The bread had the flavor of cardboard. He spat out the first mouthfuls of ersatz custard and sipped the coffee surrogate, which carried the faint aftertaste of detergent.
He looked on the wall above the counter.
SUICIDE IS UNSOCIAL
Of course; a simple way out, and one the authorities probably had a hard time thwarting.
He wondered if it was the only way out.
He left half the coffee in the cup and went out to the street. He now knew why the stores needed no salespeople. Citizens simply walked in and took what was needed. They took exactly as much as they needed and no more, or InnerVoice would punish. Dandy way to run a distribution system. No money necessary. It was the age-old utopian dream: a moneyless economy immune from the laws of supply and demand, based on mutual cooperation and individual restraint. Unfortunately there were chronic shortages, but who would complain?
Who could complain?
He caught the bulky omnibus on Conscience Avenue, a thoroughfare that ran to the river and crossed a bridge. On the other shore the bus turned left and entered a section of the city that Gene knew as the South Side. In this universe it was nameless and consisted mostly of high rises and little parks.