The murderer-rapist completed the second stage of his compulsive act and began stage three. He was gleefully trimming off pieces of his victim when the Security Squad arrived. The scene froze as the throwing net dropped over him. Moses studied the features—aquiline nose, close-set eyes. The optic record was clear enough. The wet knife was still in his hand. The image became smaller and moved to the right upper corner of the screen so the megajury could compare it with the prisoner who now appeared. He was obviously the same man. He sat in his cell eating a meal. This second image grew smaller and moved to the upper-left corner. The trial computer had assembled a complete picture of the crime this time, and Moses did not hesitate to press his “execute’ button. The arguments for suspension fell on deaf ears—too many of the organically ill awaited suspension space as it was. It was no time to be overly generous towards the psychotics.
The Murder-Rape Syndrome and the Mass-Murder Syndrome were increasing logarithmically with population density. Moses had little hope for these mad-dog killers. They could never be returned to society at present population density. He felt that he owed it to society to press the button.
After the arguments were complete, more votes tallied. The image of the prisoner moved back to central screen. His bioelectrical parameters ran across the bottom of the split screen. He finished eating and wiped his thin mouth on the back of his right hand. He did not even know when the voting hit over 50 per cent. Heavy metal ions and toxic radicals tied up his enzyme systems. Bioelectricals flattened out—membranes depolarized and stayed neutral.
Moses acknowledged his credit award for megajury duty and rolled over on his pillow. The screen played light musicals while he slept. His own breakfast could wait until he finished his night’s rest.
After brunch he checked with HC. They had the catcher’s mitt working. He adjusted his cubicle air vent and took a deep breath.
“What does the Outside smell of today?” asked a voice from the doorway.
“Green,” said Moses turning to see his visitor. It was Simple Willie, his badly scarred and sometimes confused neighbor from the next cubicle. Moses nodded. The dispenser issued a foamy. Willie picked it up with stiff contracted fingers.
“Green is a color, not an odor,” he said, sitting in the corner and foaming up his lip.
“I consider it both—like artichoke and avocado can be both colors and flavors.”
Willie drained his drink and wiped his pock-marked chin on his sleeve. He stared wistfully through the opposite wall.
“Artichokes and avocados can be more than colors and flavors. They can be things—parts of plants, I think.”
Moses studied Willie’s round face—tight with old scars. Willie had been Outside too long. It had begun as a Hunt, but there was an accident and he became lost—wandering for over a year—burning and peeling. When they found him with his trophy he had little memory. The heat of the sun had fried his brain, they thought. Plastic work was done on his face, hands and feet—but the scars continued to pucker and contract, tightening joints and disfiguring his face. Psych put him through rehab, but failed to make a useful citizen out of him. The combination of Hunt drugs and prolonged exposure to Outside traumas was too much. He was now living out his life span on the Big ES allotment of calorieand quarters-basic—CQB—fifteen hundred calories and thirty cubic yards—about half the CQB of Moses, a worker.
Simple Willie would visit Moses at every opportunity. He enjoyed the spaciousness and flavors. Moses accepted Willie. The poor frightened guy was pleasant enough most of the time, but would often deteriorate into mumbling incoherencies and fondling his grisly cubed trophy. He earned his nickname—Simple.
Willie continued: “There used to be many kinds of plants—yellow was the turnip; purple was the beet; dum de dum de dum dum; good enough to eat. I forget how the rest goes. My mother taught me that rhyme. My birth was a class four. Did you have a biouterus, or a meck?”
“Meck, I think,” said Moses. He knew that most of the citizens in his age group had been class ones—carbon copy in a bottle. Predictable genes in carbon copies—better citizens, more predictable, reliable, complacent Nebishes.
“Too bad,” said Willie. “I rather enjoyed having a pair of biological parents. I have some warm memories of family life. We shouldn’t be living alone in these tiny apartments. It isn’t good.”
Moses picked up two more foamy drinks and gave Willie one.
“I wish I had a son,” said Willie.
“Why?”
“It is sad to die—unmourned.”
Talking to Willie always made Moses feel uncomfortable. He walked back to the air vent and changed the subject.
“I still say it smells green Outside. I think I’ll go have a look for myself.”
Willie recoiled. “You’re not going—”
“I’ll just climb upshaft and look through the grill. No harm in that. Why don’t you come along?”
Willie withdrew into his corner and toyed with his trophy cube.
“Can’t stand those crowds on the spiral. Damn people. There are too many of them. I used to be able to fight my way through any crowd when I was younger. But that was before I went Outside.” Willie took off his boots, exposing his three-toed feet. “Lost my toes out there, too.”
Moses chided: “Lost your toes and your guts. I guess you are a prime example of Toe Psychology—lose a toe, and lose initiative. If man ever evolves into a three-toed citizen things will get really dull around here.”
Willie’s face showed a mixture of fear and anger. Sorting out his feelings he stood up hesitantly.
“Maybe I’ll come with you, if—if the walkway isn’t too crowded.”
Moses smiled confidently, patting him on the back. They filled their pockets with sweet bars, fat cubes and woven protein from Moses’ dispenser—charged to Moses’ credits—and started out.
It was a fifty-yard crawl to the spiral. Only a few middle-aged apathetics straggled by. No crowd. They walked over to the railing and leaned out into the shaft. An eighth of a mile below the floor of the shaft was a hazy disc of heads. Above them the shaft cap was a vague glow—more than a half-mile straight up. They started around the upspiral, passing the anonymous crawlways of their neighbors in the shaft city.
An hour later they took a drink break—each quarter-mile turn of the spiral lifted them only twenty yards. It would take over three hours to reach the cap.
“Enjoy looking Outside?” asked Willie nervously.
“I guess it is interesting,” shrugged Moses. “I got a good close look a few months back while repairing an air vent over at HC. It looked and smelled green then—real green. I felt green for a few days afterwards.”
“Humans used to live Outside,” said Willie wistfully. “Used to live in the ocean too—still carry gill slits to prove it—embryonic gill slits. I suppose our toes are embryonic memories of living Outside. We certainly don’t need them in the hive. No running, climbing or swimming to do here.”