When the DJs are through, I start wondering what the thropo means. Our species evaluation? “What species evaluation?” I say.
“Evaluation by our population control board,” he says. “Individuals selected will be transferred to an unoccupied planet. More than enough to go around — hardly seems worth renovating this one.”
I am for the moment speechless.
But the thropo’s not. “You and your friends have, if I may say so, an excellent chance of being transferred, for your genetic variety ratings are good, your collective imagination score is high, and you demonstrate ability to survive in the face of a hostile environment.” He waves his tentacles to include the Flamenco, the valley, the whole state of Los Angeles. “The wealthier castes, I’m afraid, are less adaptable. Deprive them of bodyguards, and they wouldn’t last an hour on the streets.”
My voice returns. “What happens to the people who stay here?”
“Not my department. Assume they’ll be scrapped with the planet. Can’t allow them to continue breeding like this, cause trouble in no time.”
The double-jointed twins are back, but I’m not in the mood. “Whose idea is this, anyway?”
“Oh,” says the thropo, “it’s standard procedure. All the new planets are stabilized at a healthful population level where proper aesthetic conditions can be maintained. Never any trouble after that.”
No, I think, there wouldn’t be.
“When’s all this get underway?” I ask.
The thropo shrugs his back and all his tentacles ripple. “Doing the best we can. Genetic studies have been completed, of course, but the evaluation process can’t start until the anthropological studies are ready. Afraid you could be here another week.”
“A week? Shit, man, that don’t give us much time to pack.” I am thinking I don’t mind being among the chosen few, but I am not so sure I want to be trucked off to some other planet. I mean, I was in Michigan once, and once was enough. But I figure there’s nothing I can do about it right now, so I decide to relax and glom the show.
“Ain’t that blonde a whiff?” I say to the thropo, just to be friendly.
“Marvelous, simply marvelous,” says the thropo. “A shame that such things must come to an end, but then, as one of your poets has put it so beautifully — ”
“What come to an end?” I say. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, there will be programs recorded on holotape in the museums. No need to worry that it will all be completely lost.”
“Completely lost?” I say, beginning to sound like a looped holotape myself. “What will be completely lost?”
“Nothing, as I say,” says the thropo. “But naturally, after the conversion process, this sort of thing will no longer be commercially feasible. It’s to be expected that there will be some changes in the economic milieu as a result of the migration. But this is such an unusual approach to the peripheral economic situation — an entire industry devoted to depicting the mechanics of evolution and species survival, millions of people dependent upon it for their livelihood, you understand — that I think it’s worth recording, if only as a galactic cultural curiosity. One of my little projects this trip.”
I start off at the place where I got lost. “What conversion process?”
“The neuterization process,” he says. “Don’t want your new planet to turn into a grossly overpopulated mess like this one. Our genetically-tailored recombinant replacement process yields all the benefits of Type III distribution, and it’s really much more reliable than the cumbersome organic method.”
I get just about every other word, but I get the drift. “Neuter?” I say. “You’re not going to fucking neuter me.”
“Ah,” says the thropo. “English semantic structure can sometimes be most confusing.”
I am about to tell him what he can do with his confusion, but I figure I should cruise it a bit. “This, uh, neuterization process,” I say, “uh, how’d you say it works?” Meantime I’m thinking maybe I should watch the show more carefully, because in a little while I might not be interested in this sort of thing at all.
“Automatic,” says the thropo. “Just wonderful, the equipment we have now. When I first started out, we had to do it all by hand, you know.”
“No, no,” say. “I mean, do you, you know, cut anything? Or is it, uh — ”
“Ah,” he says. “Nothing like that. Just a spot of directed radiation and of course a psychic implant. Inhibits the libido and prevents wasteful energy loss.”
This new angle makes it pretty difficult for me to just sit and watch the show, let me tell you. I mean, who wants to be turned into a zombie and sent off to some weird planet? But those snakeheads, there’s no fooling around with them. The thropos, they don’t give you any trouble, but you don’t mess with their cops. Those people who fought the snakeheads really got fried.
After the show, we ditch the thropo and I tell the guys what he says. This causes some surprise, as you can imagine. The first question is, how come he told it to me, when nobody else seems to have heard about it. Now, I can’t really answer that, except maybe other people know and they’re not telling. But I convince the guys that what I’m telling them is true. I don’t lie to the guys, they know that.
Everybody agrees that life on this new planet, whatever it’s like, would be a hustle and a half compared to life on Pomona. This is despite the fact, which you may not know, that it’s tough to make a living as a nixen these days. Most of the greeners are pretty dumb, but they got these fuckin’ defense systems you need a goddam degree in engineering to get past.
We figure we’re going to have to do something fast. But we don’t know what.
So the next day we’ve got a lookout for the thropo and we catch him standing in line to see a triple feature at the Magnafox, a bunch of Japanese spleebies with titles like Sex Sluts From Beyond the Universe. He’s got his holocorder with him.
We mumble him a little, then we lead him around to what we want to know.
“Who’s in charge of this neuterization program, anyway?” I ask, real casual.
“In this sector?” says the thropo. “I am. And I can tell you, it’s not a job that leaves me much time for field research.”
I don’t have much sympathy for his troubles, but I am very happy to learn that we know the guy in charge. The thropo, however, doesn’t stop there.
“The subtleties of your reproduction ritual and the multiplicity of commercial media depicting its forms leave me with little hope of observing all types of socio-sexual economic interaction first hand.” The thropo waves a tentacle or two at the theater billboard, which is a full-color holoposter of this blonde whiff who is wearing antennas on her head and very little else, being threatened by an ugly-looking monster with a huge dick. When you move, the monster leers and shakes his dick. “When one considers,” says the thropo, “the interpolation of additional thematic content, such as the exploitation of your species’ regrettable xenophobia, the amount of material is simply overwhelming.”
I am beginning to see some possibilities. “You need time, huh?” I say. “This isn’t something you can do after we move to this new planet?”
“The social context is most important,” says the thropo. “Of course, we are assembling great collections of source material — films, photos, printed matter, ritual clothing and devices. But after neuterization, the social context will be lost forever. The other day, for instance, when you and your friends were participating in the performance, tossing objects to the performers and interacting with them, I noticed that many of the other people there, the older men especially, were most introspective. I want to examine that sort of reaction as well, but I simply can’t be everywhere at once.”