Earth’s biosphere was very simple. Oceans contained only plankton—scanty and mostly microscopic. A few mussels filtered green waters of ocean and canal. Plants were listed under crops only—edible grasses, herbs, vines, trees—all bore fleshy items of caloric or flavor value for the hive. He smiled. Moses’ Melon would be listed soon. Megafauna included several species of water mammal—Sirenia and cetaceans… the canal cleaners. Buckeyes were classified as a garden varmint with approaching hive-induced extinction. While the Nebish numbered over three trillions, the buckeye population was estimated at a fraction of a million—worldwide.
The stacks contained only scanty information on such things as sun, moon and stars—as if atrophy by disuse had allowed these items to be dropped. Hive flora included bountiful species of vermin—sharing the warmth and nutrition of Big ES—lice, roaches, meaty rats (cross-indexed under game food), and insects. Nothing else. Nothing was reported swimming the seas, flying in the air or walking the land. Fish, birds, reptiles and mammals—gone. Moses didn’t miss them, never having known them. He was just a little amazed that the total mass of protoplasm on the planet was concentrated in one species and his food chain. Man had proved to be a very successful creature indeed.
As the week came to a close he checked in with the Pipe caste for his next duty assignment. J. D. Birk’s square face came on the screen—nodding and grinning.
“No need to come in this shift, Moses. Your melon is a big success. It is a slime mold, just as we guessed. The troph stage is an ordinary-sized amoeba that thrives on aerobic sludge. At maturity it coalesces to sporulate like a fungus. Bio classifies it as safe. Synth plans to gray-age the melon and try it in the mushroom flavor line at first. If it goes over big, we’ll be rolling in Augrams. Meanwhile, you have your Climb authorization. Your gear is on its way.”
Moses sat on the edge of his cot munching breakfast and listening. The words were what he had expected—more or less—but Birk’s face was tighter than usual, and his voice sounded strained.
The dispenser began to drop items for the Climb. He carefully checked his new suit of clothes for defects before chucking the soiled ones down the digester chute. His kit contained food bars for the long trip to the mountains. He would be in the tubeways for several days—even without losing time at dispensers. Public dispensers had an irritating way of delaying the traveler—otherwise he tolerated them. After all, most dispensers were only class thirteens—and identities had to be carefully checked. Moses didn’t want a nonworker eating flavored calories and charging them to his account.
For two whole days Moses fought his way through the stinking crowds. He was weak from trying to keep his footing in the slippery excrement and crushed roaches, sore from stumbling over decaying neglected bodies, and continually nauseated by the rotten vapors that saturated his nose filters. He was sorry he had come.
He stepped out at a strange shaft city to catch a nap. There were the usual piles of refuse and bland stares. He found a corner to sit down and sleep in. A sickening thud woke him up. A small gob of something wet hit his cheek. A jumper. Another suicide. From the skeletal fragmentation Moses judged that he or she had started a quarter of a mile upshaft. There appeared to be more than one body. That irritated Moses. The jumper hadn’t had the simple decency to scream a warning so the impact area could be cleared.
Moses was wide awake now. He elbowed his way back to the tubeway and continued toward the mountain. A class nine Sweeper brushed by. Its five-foot-tall snail shape took up the space of ten humans as it busied itself wetting, scrubbing and sucking at the stained floor. Its thin-walled sac already contained one large lump that had elbows and knees.
The tubeway deposited Moses on the floor of Rec shaft. He was alone. The large dispenser on the spiral called his name and issued the heavy pack of rations—dry staples for his time on the mountain. As he stood strapping it on, he mentally complained about his own Pipe caste. Their conduits moved everything on the planet—humans, food, water, air—everything—thousands of miles—but always horizontally. Never up. The energy was not available. The Rec shaft was narrow—a mere thirty yards in diameter. The spiral had a steep 20 per cent grade. There was only an occasional crawlway. No humans. A pinpoint of dim light in the center of the spiral marked what he estimated to be the two-mile height. Taking a deep breath of the cold, damp, metallic air, he paced out. Three hours later he passed three gray-haired men leaning on their packs.
He felt smug about his endurance until, an hour later, a girl—puberty plus seven—passed him. Her pack was about the same size as his. She wore the smock and emblem of the Attendant caste.
He stopped at the one-mile level to sleep. Crawling into one of the cubicles, he was surprised at how sterile it was. Without dispensers man seldom stayed more than a few hours. No nests, no vermin.
He slept over ten hours. A deep, restful sleep without all the usual slapping and scratching.
His Attendant met him at the top of the ramp. She was a puberty-plus-ten female—probably well epithelialized with mature cornified squamous cells—pleasant enough, too. But dull-witted and sterile. He stood, sweating and swaying under his heavy pack—exhausted. She steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder strap.
“Supper or sex?” was her greeting.
Politeness prevented him from growling, “Sleep.” This was a Climb, after all. He forced a smile and carefully straightened his aching back.
“Let’s try both,” he said, “after I’ve refreshed myself.”
“Saved us some water. Come on. We’re family for two weeks.”
She led him to their room. In the dim light he paid more attention to the temperature of his bath water than the room’s decor. She found the soap duck in his pack and tossed it in the refresher with him. He adjusted the cycling to hold a knee-deep soak. After fifteen minutes, she joined him with a scrub brush. He wallowed around—water up to his chin—while she worked the stiff bristles over his skin. The water was a little too cold for his liking, but he had to admit he was beginning to feel clean.
When he stepped out she handed him a coarse towel wraparound. She wore a vented robe belted at the waist.
“This is the latest model of the cot-and-a-half. It has all the attachments for the first seventy-two positions,” she said proudly.
The thin mountain air dragged him down. He sat on the cot smiling weakly.
“Leather or lace?” she asked over her shoulder. She began rummaging around in the closet.
He stared at the pillow, longing for sleep.
“Leather or lace?” she repeated.
“Oh,” he answered, “skin will be fine.”
She looked disappointed. Evidently she had some special outfits she wanted to show off. She loosened her belt and walked toward the cot.
“You aren’t one of those Position-One fellows are you?”
“Of course not. Are you familiar with the 54/12 switch?”
“Switch on the plateau phase?”
He nodded.
She smiled. At least she had been matched with an interesting partner this time. She glanced inside the closet door for the diagrams. Fifty-four/twelve switch?
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asked. “It looks a bit awkward to attempt during the plateau.”
He was still awake enough to grin. “Yes, I’m sure. This is a Climb, isn’t it? Might as well make it challenging.”
She hung up her robe and came to the cot. While she was removing the attachments they wouldn’t be using, he stretched out and looked into the mirror on the ceiling. In a moment he was fast asleep.
She was an accomplished succubus.
Dawn was a bright surprise. At full blaze the yellow sun quickly rose above a pair of snow-covered peaks, filling their room with a blinding glare. One entire wall was transparent. His Attendant stumbled unsteadily from their cot and turned down the wall, changing the sun into a pale lunar disc. Then she collapsed back onto the bedding.