“Adne Bensen and her children, Man Forrester, at present are being processed for storage in Sublake Emergency Facility Nine. However, it is not as yet known whether space will be available for them there on a permanent basis, and so the location must be considered tentative pending the completion of additional facilities—”
“You mean they’re dead?”
“Clinically dead, Man Forrester. Yes.”
“How about—” Forrester cast about in his mind— “let’s see, that Martian. Not Heinzie, the one with the Irish name, Kevin O’Rourke; is he dead, too?”
“Yes, Man Forrester.”
“And the Italian ballerina I met at the restaurant where the Forgotten Men hung out?”
“Also dead, Man Forrester.”
“What the hell happened?” he shouted.
The joymaker replied carefully, “Speaking objectively, Man Forrester, there has been an unforecast increase in the number of commitments to freezing facilities. More than ninety-eight point one percent of the human race is now in cryogenic storage. In subjective terms, the causes are not well established but appear to relate to the probability of invasion by extra-Solarian living creatures, probably Sirian.”
“You mean everybody committed suicide?”
“No, Man Forrester. Many preferred to be killed by others; for example, Man Heinzlichen Jura de Syrtis Major. He, you will recall, elected to be killed by you.”
Forrester sank back against the seat. “Holy sweet heaven,” he muttered to himself. Dead! Nearly the whole human race, dead! It was more than he could take in at once. He sat staring into space until the joymaker said apologetically, “Man Forrester, do you wish to select a destination?”
“No—wait a minute, yes! Maybe I do. You said ninety-eight percent of the human race is dead.”
“Ninety-eight point one, yes, Man Forrester.”
“But that means there are some who are still alive, right? Are there any I know?”
“Yes, Man Forrester. Certain classes are still in vital state in large proportion because of special requests made for their services—e.g., medical specialists working in the freezer stations. Also, there are others. One you know is Man Hironibi. He is not only in vital state but has, as you know, given special instructions in regard to receiving messages from you.”
“Fine!” cried Forrester. “Just take me to Taiko, right away! I want to see someone who’s alive!”
Because—went the unspoken corollary—he didn’t want to see the ruins left by the dead. Not as long as he was so completely convinced that it was he himself who had killed them.
Sixteen
But, as it turned out, the cab did not take him to see Taiko after all.
It did what it could. The joymaker programmed it properly enough, and Forrester found himself high in a building of bright ruby crystal, in front of a door inscribed THE NED LUD SOCIETY. Inside was what he supposed was the latter-day equivalent of an office—although it was warm and damp and a fountain played among ferns. But no one was inside.
“What the devil’s the matter with you, joymaker?” he demanded. “Where’s Taiko?”
“Man Forrester,” said the joymaker, “there is an anomaly here. My records indicate Man Hironibi’s presence at this place, but clearly they are wrong. My records have never been wrong before.”
“Well, let me talk to him. You said he’d left special instructions about that.”
“Yes, Man Forrester.” Pause. Then Taiko’s voice came on. “That you, Charles? Glad to hear from you. I’m busy now, but I’ll be in touch when I get a chance—only don’t refuse my message this time, will you?”
That was all. “Wait a minute,” cried Forrester. “Taiko!”
The joymaker interrupted him. “Man Forrester, that was a recording.”
Forrester growled profanely. He walked around the office, examining it, but without finding anything that would help him locate Taiko. “Well, hell,” he said. “Let’s see. Is anybody else I know still alive?”
“Man Forrester, Edwardino Wry is also ambient. Do you consider that he is known to you?”
“I doubt it, because I never heard of the son— Wait a minute. Was he one of the ones that beat me up?”
“Yes, Man Forrester.”
“Well, I don’t want to see him. Forget it, joymaker,” said Forrester. “I guess I’ll just wait for Taiko.”
Three or four times he thought he saw people, but he was only able to get close to one of them, and it said civilly, “We are not human, Man Forrester. We are merely a special-purpose service unit diverted to aid at the cryogenic facilities.” It had looked like a pretty young blonde in a bikini, perhaps a barmaid somewhere, Forrester thought; but was too dispirited to inquire further. Apart from those, there was no one in sight in Shoggo.
He walked aimlessly, shaking his head.
His long days of self-imposed exile had let most of the guilt evaporate from him. He no longer felt either fearful of discovery or humiliated; the Sirian had used him as a tool, true, but if it had not been him, it would have been someone else. Anyway, he was more concerned about this world. The year 2527 was a great disappointment to him. He could think of no other age when the response of the populace to a threat of death would have been such universal suicide. It was simply crazy. . . .
Of course, he reminded himself, death was not the same to these people as it had been to his contemporaries. Death was no longer necessarily permanent. It was like fleeing to a neutral country to sit out a war, and heaven knew there were lots of twentieth-century examples of that.
Nevertheless, in Charles Forrester’s opinion the world of 2527 A.D. was chicken.
Forrester filled his lungs and shouted, “You are all cowards! The world’s better off without you!” His voice echoed emptily among the tall, hard building faces.
“Man Forrester,” said the joymaker, “were you addressing me?”
“I was not. Shut up,” said Forrester. “No, cancel that. Get me a cab.” And, when it came, he took it back to the broad hovercraft way where he and Jerry Whitlow had hidden out as two of the Forgotten Men. But there were no more Forgotten Men in evidence, not wherever he looked, no matter how loudly he called out. “Take me to Adne Bensen’s home,” he commanded, and the cab flew him into the entrance port at the midtower level of the building they had shared, but there was no one visible there, either. Not in the streets, not in the halls, not even in the apartment, after Forrester had commanded the joymaker to let him in.
He ordered himself a meal and sat on the edge of a sort of couch in the children’s room, feeling put-upon and sad. When he had finished eating he said, “Joymaker, try getting Taiko for me again.”
“Yes, Man Forrester. . . . There is no new message, Man Forrester.”
“Don’t give me that! Say it’s priority, like you’re always doing to me.”
“You do not have the authority to classify a message priority, Man Forrester.”
“I do if I say I’m planning to kill him,” Forrester said cunningly. “You have to notify him of my intentions, right?”
“I do indeed, Man Forrester, but not until you have filed appropriate bonds and guaranties. Until you have done so, your notice cannot be effective. Do you wish to file, Man Forrester?”
“Well,” said Forrester, thinking about filling out forms and signing documents, “I guess not, no. Isn’t there any way I can get through to him?”
The joymaker said, “I have a taped message from him, which I can display on the view-wall if you wish, Man Forrester. It is not, however, directly addressed to you.”
“Display the son of a gun then,” ordered Forrester. “And make it snappy!”
“Yes, Man Forrester.”
The view-wall lighted up, obediently; but what appeared on it was not Taiko Hironibi. It was a tall, largely built woman with a commanding presence, who said, “Girl Goldilocks and Terror of Bears!”