He had won. He had got them back. They were his, again. And just in time. The filing date for the report was practically upon him.
Billings slid out of his coat and vest. He rolled up his sleeves, trembling a little. He had been lucky. Control over the B type was extremely limited. They were virtually out of jurisdiction. That, of course, was the problem itself. Both the A and B types had managed to escape supervision. They had rebelled, disobeying orders and therefore putting themselves outside the limit of the plan.
But these -- the new type, Project C. Everything depended on them. They had left his hands, but now they were back again. Under control, as intended. Within the periphery of supervisory instruction.
Billings slid the rubber band from the box. He raised the lid, slowly and carefully.
Out they swarmed -- fast. Some headed to the right, some to the left. Two columns of tiny figures racing off, head down. One reached the edge of the desk and leaped. He landed on the rug, rolling and falling. A second jumped after him, then a third.
Billings broke out of his paralysis. He grabbed frantically, wildly. Only two remained. He swiped at one and missed. The other -
He grabbed it, squeezing it tight between his clenched fingers. Its companion wheeled. It had something in its hand. A splinter. A splinter of wood, torn from the inside of the cigar box.
It ran up and stuck the end of the splinter into Billings's finger.
Billings gasped in pain. His fingers flew open. The captive tumbled out, rolling on its back. Its companion helped it up, half-dragging it to the edge of the desk. Together the two of them leaped.
Billings bent down, groping for them. They scampered rapidly, toward the door to the porch. One of them was at the lamp plug. It tugged. A second joined it and the two tiny figures pulled together. The lamp cord came out of the wall. The room plunged into darkness.
Billings found the desk drawer. He yanked it open, spilling its contents onto the floor. He found some big sulphur matches and lit one.
They were gone -- out onto the porch.
Billings hurried after them. The match blew out. He lit another, shielding it with his hand.
The creatures had got to the railing. They were going over the edge, catching hold of the ivy and swinging down into the darkness.
He got to the edge too late. They were gone, all of them. All nine, over the side of the roof, into the blackness of the night.
Billings ran downstairs and out onto the back porch. He reached the ground, hurrying around the side of the house, where the ivy grew up the side.
Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. Silence. No sign of them anywhere.
They had escaped. They were gone. They had worked out a plan of escape and put it into operation. Two columns, going in opposite directions, as soon as the lid was lifted. Perfectly timed and executed.
Slowly Billings climbed the stairs to his room. He pushed the door open and stood, breathing deeply, dazed from the shock.
deeply, dazed from the shock.
Billings sat down heavily at his desk. For a long time he sat immobile, silent and thoughtful, gradual comprehension coming to him. It was not his fault. It had happened before -- twice before. And it would happen again. Each Project would carry the discontent to the next. It would never end, no matter how many Projects were conceived and put into operation. The rebellion and escape. The evasion of the plan.
After a time, Billings reached out and pulled his big report book to him. Slowly he opened it to the place he had left off. From the report he removed the entire last section. The summary. There was no use scrapping the current Project. One Project was as good as any other. They would all be equal -equal failures.
He had known as soon as he saw them. As soon as he had raised the lid. They had clothes on. Little suits of clothing. Like the others, a long time before.
The Trouble with Bubbles
Nathan Hull left his surface car and crossed the pavement on foot, sniffing the chill morning air. Robot work-trucks were starting to rumble past. A gutter slot sucked night debris greedily. A vanishing headline caught his eye momentarily:
PACIFIC TUBE COMPLETED; ASIAN LAND MASS LINKED
He passed on away from the corner, hands in his pockets, looking for Farley's house.
Past the usual Worldcraft Store with its conspicuous motto: "Own Your Own World!" Down a short grass-lined walk and onto a sloping tilt-front porch. Up three imitation marble stairs. Then Hull flicked his hand before the code beam and the door melted away.
The house was still. Hull found the ascent tube to the second floor and peered up. No sound. Warm air blew around him, tinged with faint smells -- smells of food and people and familiar objects. Had they gone? No. It was only the third day; they'd be around someplace, maybe up on the roof terrace.
He ascended to the second floor and found it also vacant. But distant sounds drifted to his ears. A tinkle of laughter, a man's voice. A woman's -- perhaps Julia's. He hoped so -- hoped she were still conscious.
He tried a door at random, steeling himself. Sometimes during the third and fourth days the Contest Parties got a little rough. The door melted, but the room was empty. Couches, empty glasses, ashtrays, exhausted stimulant tubes, articles of clothing strewn everywhere -
Abruptly Julia Marlow and Max Farley appeared, arm in arm, followed by several others, pushing forward in a group, excited, and red-cheeked, eyes bright, almost feverish. They entered the room and halted.
"Nat!" Julia broke away from Farley and came breathlessly up to him. "Is it that late already?"
"Third day," Hull said. "Hello, Max."
"Hello, Hull. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something?"
"Nothing. Can't stay. Julia --"
Farley waved a robant over, sweeping two drinks from its chest tray. "Here, Hull. You can stay long enough for one drink."
long enough for one drink."
"Third day. I'm picking Julia up. If she still wants to leave."
"Don't take her away," the slim blonde protested. She wore a sideglance robe, invisible out of the corner of the eye, but an opaque fountain when looked at directly. "They're judging right now. In the lounge. Stick around. The fun's just beginning." She winked at him with heavy blue-lidded eyes, glazed and sleep-drugged.
Hull turned to Julia. "If you want to stay..."
Julia put her hand nervously on his arm, standing close to him. Not losing her fixed smile she grated in his ear: "Nat, for God's sake, get me out of here. I can't stand it. Please!"
Hull caught her intense appeal, her eyes bright with desperation. He could feel the mute urgency quivering through her body, tense and strained. "Okay, Julia. We'll take off. Maybe get some breakfast. When did you last eat?"
"Two days. I think. I don't know." Her voice trembled. "They're judging right now. God, Nat, you should have seen --"
"Can't go until the judging's over," Farley rumbled. "I think they're almost through. You didn't enter, Hull? No entry for you?"
"No entry."
"Surely you're an owner --"
"Nope. Sorry." Hull's voice was faintly ironic. "No world of my own, Max. Can't see it."
"You're missing something." Max beamed dopily, rocking back on his heels. "Quite a time -- best Contest Party for weeks. And the real fun begins after the judging. All this is just preliminary."
"I know." Hull moved Julia rapidly toward the descent tube. "We'll see you. So long, Bart. Give me a call when you're out of here."
"Hold it!" Bart murmured suddenly, cocking his head. "The judging's over. The winner is going to be announced." He pushed toward the lounge, the others excitedly behind. "You coming, Hull? Julia?"
Hull glanced at the girl. "All right." They followed reluctantly. "For a minute, maybe."
A wall of sound struck them. The lounge was a seething chaos of milling men and women.