To his superior, Pikeman, he said, “It’s a burden. You are very right.” A burden, he thought, this task, this Civil Service rating. I can’t fly up into the stars; I can’t pursue something which does not exist into the remote windings of the universe. How will I feel, he wondered, when we destroy Thors Provoni? My work, he thought, will be just that much more tedious. And yet I like it. I would not give it up. To be a New Man is to be something.
Maybe I’m a victim of our own propaganda, he reflected.
“When Appleton comes in with his boy,” Pikeman said, “give little Robert the entire test . . . then tell them the rating won’t be ready for another week or so. That way the blow will be less hard to endure.” He grinned starkly and added, “And you won’t have to deliver the news—it’ll be in the form of a written notice.”
“I don’t mind telling them,” Weiss said. But he did. Because, probably, it would not be the truth.
The truth, he thought. We are the truth; we create it: it is ours. Together we have drawn a new chart. As we grow, it grows with us; we change. Where will we be next year? he asked himself. No way to know . . . except for the precogs among the Unusuals, and they saw many futures at one time, like—he had heard—rows of boxes.
His secretary’s voice came from the intercom. “Mr. Weiss, a Mr. Nicholas Appleton and his son are here to see you.”
“Send them in,” Weiss said, and leaned back in his large, imitation-naugahide chair, preparing to greet them. On his desk the test-form lay; he fiddled with it reflectively, seeing it, from the corner of his eye, assume various shapes. He squeezed his eyes almost shut for an instant . . . and made the form, in his mind, exactly what he wanted it to be.
Chapter 2
Kleo Appleton, in their tiny apartment, glanced swiftly at her watch and trembled. So late, she thought. And so little, little use. Maybe they’ll never come back; maybe they’ll say the wrong thing and be whisked off to one of those internment camps you hear of.
“He’s a fool,” she said to the television set. And, from the speaker of the set, a chorus of clapping sounded as the irreal “audience” applauded.
“Mrs. Kleo Appleton,” the “announcer” said, “of North Platte, Idaho, says her husband is a fool. What do you think about that, Ed Garley?” A fat round face appeared on the screen as television personality Ed Garley pondered a witty reply. “Would you say it’s perfectly absurd for a grown man to imagine for an instant that—”
She shut off the set with a wave of her hand.
From the stove, in the far wall of the living room, the smell of ersatz apple pie drifted. She had spent half her week’s wage coupons on it, along with three yellow ration stamps. And they’re not here for it, she said to herself. But I guess that isn’t so important. In comparison to everything else. This was, perhaps, the most important day in her son’s life.
She needed someone to talk to. While she waited. The TV set, this time, would not do.
Leaving the apartment, she crossed the hall, knocked at Mrs. Arlen’s door.
It opened. Frowsy-haired, middle-aged Mrs. Rose Arlen peered out, turtle-like. “Oh, Mrs. Appleton.”
Kleo Appleton said, “Do you still have Mr. Cleaner? I need him. I want to get everything right so it’ll look nice when Nick and Bobby get back. You see, Bobby is taking the test, today. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“They’re rigged,” Mrs. Arlen said.
“The people who say that,” Kleo said, “are people who’ve failed the test, or someone related to them has. There are countless people who pass every day, most of them children like Bobby.”
“I’ll bet.”
Frostily, Kleo said, “Do you have Mr. Cleaner? I’m entitled to three hours of use a week and I haven’t had him this week at all.”
With reluctance, Mrs. Arlen puttered off, was gone for a few moments, and then returned pushing pompous, lofty Mr. Cleaner, the internal maintenance man of the building. “Good day, Mrs. Appleton,” Mr. Cleaner whined tinnily, seeing her. “Well plug me in but it’s nice to see you again. Good morning, Mrs. Appleton. Well plug me in but it’s—”
She pulled him across the hall and into her own apartment.
To Mrs. Arlen, Kleo said, “Why are you so hostile to me? What did I ever do to you?”
“I’m not hostile,” Rose Arlen said. “I’m just trying to wake you up to the truth. If the test was on the level, our daughter Carol would have passed. She can hear thoughts, at least a little; she’s a genuine Unusual, as much as anyone in Civil Service classifications. A lot of rated Unusuals, they lose their ability because—”
“I’m sorry; I have to clean.” Kleo firmly shut the door, turned to look for an outlet in which to plug in Mr. Cleaner—
She halted. And stood unmoving.
A man, small and grubby-looking, with beaked nose and thin, agile features, wearing a seedy cloth coat and unpressed trousers, confronted her. He had entered the apartment while she had been talking to Mrs. Arlen.
“Who are you?” Kleo asked, and felt her heart labor with fear. She sensed about the man a furtive atmosphere; he seemed ready to dodge out of sight . . . his eyes, narrow and dark, peeped nervously here and there, as if, she thought, he’s making sure he knows all the ways out of the apartment.
The man said huskily, “I’m Darby Shire.” He stared at her fixedly, and on his face the hunted expression grew. “I’m an old friend,” he said, “of your husband’s. When will he be home, and can I stay here until he comes?”
“They’ll be home any minute now,” she said. She still did not move; she kept as far away from Darby Shire—if that was really his name—as possible. “I have to clean the apartment before they get back,” she said. But she did not plug Mr. Cleaner in. She kept her gaze, her scrutiny of Darby Shire, unaltered. What’s he so afraid of? she wondered. Are they after him, the Public Security Service? And if so, what has he done?
“I’d like a cup of coffee,” Shire said. He ducked his head, as if avoiding the pleading quality in his own voice. As if he did not approve of himself asking for anything from her, but needing it, having to have it, any way.
“May I see your identab?” Kleo said.
“Be my guest.” Shire rummaged in the bulging pockets of his coat, brought out a handful of plastic cards; he tossed them onto the chair beside Kleo Appleton. “Take as many as you want.”
“Three identabs?” she said, incredulously. “But you can’t own more than one. It’s against the law.”
Shire said, “Where is Nick?”
“With Bobby. At the Federal Bureau of Personnel Standards.”
“Oh, you have a son.” He smiled crookedly. “You can see how long it’s been since I last had anything to do with Nick. Is the boy New? Unusual?”
“New,” Kleo said. She made her way across the living room to the v-fone. Lifting the receiver she began to dial.
“Who are you calling?” Shire asked.
“The Bureau. To see if Nick and Bobby have left already.”
Striding towards the v-fone, Shire said, “They won’t remember; they won’t know who you’re talking about. Don’t you understand how they are?” He reached, cut off the v-fone’s circuit. “Read my book.” Groping among his various pockets, he came up with a paperback book, bent, with wrinkled pages and stains, its cover torn; he held it out to her.