He felt fairly rested. The thin air didn’t bother him so much. Walking to the edge of the room, he looked down. Pyramids of monotonous cubicles covered the lower slopes as far as he could see—he was reminded of an obscene glacier. The black crags of a distant mountain still looked pure—they seemed to be naked rock—but the distance was too great for his visual resolution. He hoped the crags remained black at sunset instead of flaming with window-reflected rays.
“Breakfast?” asked the Attendant, fingering his packs.
Odd, but when she began to share his food—calories he earned and hauled… she changed in his eyes. No longer was she a loving Attendant, here for his companionship. Now she was a parasite, trading her efforts for calories—flavored calories!
Try to go through life a little bit edible.
You never know when you’ll meet something hungry.
Moses took his Attendant into the eerie cavelike bar. The outer walls were on step-down, almost opaque. Moses saw the hazy outlines of mountain and sky—grays and blacks. The hour was noon. The four-toed Nebishes crowded, thigmotropically, around the massive stone bar—comforted by the warm hips and elbows. Everyone wore the standard issue of loose translucent party garments. Moses ordered their layered drinks from the giddy dispenser and dialed for flambé. A tiny white fire flickered on top of their multicolored cylinders.
Drinks in hand, they joined the crowd. Conversation turned to the recent megajury execution. Moses’ Attendant asked him to repeat his version. He complied, then lifted his drink.
Moses watched the flames on his pousse-café. Bending his straw, he deftly sampled the pomegranate, chocolate and mint of the deeper layers. Sitting back, he rubbed his singed eyebrows.
A man—short and hostile-looking—shouted from across the bar: “Killing a psychotic prisoner by remote and diluting your guilt in the group conscience of the megajury—not too manly.”
Moses had heard these arguments many times, but they still stirred reflex hatred when they were directed at him. The adrenal response felt exhilarating. He shot back: “Charity over Justice. Is that what you want—suspend a worthless psychotic and crowd out some hard-working citizen with an organic illness?”
The hostile parroted gleanings from news channels out of context: “Thousands of patients move in and out of suspension every year. There’s always room for one more. But then, you’re better at strawing-up your cordial than being manly—button-pushing is your style.”
Moses strawed-up his mint without disturbing the other layers—drinking slowly—a study in irritation. “You’re a man?” he parried. “Who have you killed lately?”
“Nobody,” frowned the hostile, “but I did go on a Hunt—Outside. A real Hunt. I didn’t make a group activity out of it, either. Exposed myself—man to man. Just didn’t see any game—that’s all.” He threw down his drink and brooded.
“What is so manly about a Hunt?” asked Moses. “You take some drugs to give you courage, and you use a bow against some ignorant savage. That game has no chance against all the electronic gear.”
“It is manly to just be there—Outside. I was putting it on the line, not sitting here talking big about a megajury killing.”
“You’re here now.”
The little man’s adrenergic response pulled him from his stool. He strode around the bar shouting at Moses: “Look, killer—you’re probably real good at pushing buttons to kill some unfortunate guy whose brain malfunctions. But your reason is all wet. There isn’t enough overcrowding to warrant the unnecessary killing of anyone. Have you ever looked Outside? I went out and didn’t see anything—just the black dirt, a few shaft caps and that damn Agrifoam. No buckeyes. If Hunter Control can be wrong about buckeyes, why can’t the Suspension Clinics be wrong about overcrowding?”
“You’re not a very trusting fellow.”
The little man calmed.
“I question a lot of things—especially the overcrowding. What can we really see in our shaft cities? Nothing. Just walls. Tubeway walls. Shaft walls. Cubicle walls. Even if you travel there are just more walls. I’d just like to get a good look Outside once—like from the top of a mountain. See just how crowded the shaft caps are.”
“We’re over half way up a mountain right now. Why don’t we climb up and have a look around?” challenged Moses.
The bar grew silent. All eyes moved to the ceiling where coils of frayed rope hung from rusted pitons. The pitons, granular with age, were symbolic of the Climb. Most Nebishes came here for sex, drinking and spectating. Today Moses and the hostile would entertain.
Clumsy in his insulated gear, Moses crunched across the virgin snow to the edge of the balcony. A flexible ladder danced in the wind. The hostile crunched past and put his foot in a rung to hold the ladder taut. He gestured for Moses to go first.
As Moses started up, the hostile lifted his foot and the ladder jumped out of the snow. Wind sailed Moses over the mile-deep crevasse. Spinning like a kite, he saw a rotating view of sky, mountain, chasm, sky, mountain, chasm—vastness and vertigo triggered primordial fears. His muscles locked rigidly. Around and around he turned until his gravity senses were lost—clouds above and mists below merged. Time stopped. Snowflakes on his faceplate refused to melt.
When the wind changed direction, he swung back over the ledge. Dizzy, he looked down at the firm surface mocking him only a few feet below. The ladder’s slack whipped up huge chunks of snow as it snaked back and forth. He tried to climb down, but his fingers were frozen to the rungs by fear. The group from the bar stood, drinks in hand, watching through the open door and taking sadistic pleasure in his terror. The wind sent him back out over the misty void and he blacked out.
He felt himself falling. Screaming, he opened his eyes to see that he was safe on his cot. Bulky dressings covered his hands and feet. His nose hurt. His Attendant hurried to his side with a liter of hot broth. She steadied his hands while he drank deeply.
“Try to relax,” she said. “But don’t close your eyes until your semicircular canals settle down. You’re going to feel like you’re spinning and falling for a while yet. You were on the ladder a long time before I got you down.”
“Thanks,” said Moses.
The broth was not too bad—fat cubes, woven protein and a vegetable bar. It strengthened him quickly. She removed her garments and crawled under the covers, rubbing him briskly.
“Hey. You’re going to injure my frostbite.”
“It isn’t bad. Probably won’t even blister. Those bandages can probably come off tomorrow.”
“Wonderful,” he said, flexing his fingers carefully. “Then I’ll still be able to keep my appointment up on the mountain with that little hostile.”
“He is looking forward to it—dropped in while the Mediteck/meck was working on you. Three days from now.”
“Three days…” said Moses, propping up his pillow.
The Attendant poured two glasses of liqueur—dabbing a few drops of the aromatic fluid on her wrists and throat.
“Plenty of time…” she said softly, handing him his glass.
“For what?”
“Kipling,” she answered. With nimble fingers she adjusted the cot-and-a-half controls. The bedding flexed. Two bolsters were brought from the closet. He watched—puzzled. She swiveled their dispenser closer and carried a gadget-covered cord into bed with her. As the viewscreen activated she crawled roughly onto his lap. He smelled and tasted pomegranates.