The tests Tibsnorg had done on himself, with his first saved money, showed that he was fertile, though probably only passively, that is, through the collection and storing of his sperm. In a short time he mastered his computer job and was promoted. His new position was administering the decisions made by the division of Central that chose material to harvest from among the living specimens. Central’s decisions were clear, logical, and in general didn’t need correction. A bonus was given for discovering mistakes in them, and Tibsnorg paid close attention to his work. The material was harvested both for the general public hospital and for individuals who at their own cost wanted to reduce their defectiveness. There was plenty of work: several dozen requests came in every day, and with them the decisions, which all had to be read, considered, processed. Soon Tibsnorg established a procedure and began to have free time, which he used to familiarize himself with the computer and learn various facts.
He remembered Piecky’s words, that because information was a privilege, one had to make the utmost use of it. He learned that the decision whether someone would be a person or not was usually based on a simple sum of scores on tests. There was therefore a fairly large margin of error. He also learned that he had become a person thanks only to Bablyoyannis’s intervention. Bablyoyannis had changed Central’s decision to give Piecky personhood. The number of points Piecky had earned for mental ability had in fact exceeded what Snorg accumulated for physical function, correctness of form, and intelligence. When Tibsnorg read on the viewscreen that Tib had received exactly a zero, he uttered an obscenity.
He had always been intrigued by the light of day that fell into the Room. Now he learned that it was only a lamp in the visible and the ultraviolet spectrum, a lamp that was turned on and off periodically. The Room was located far beneath the earth. On the surface, he saw the sun only once-a bright-gray disk shining through a thick mist. The sun was better now than it had been; in the time when the earth was covered constantly with snow, the sun never pierced the clouds.
9
Tibsnorg became better acquainted with the classification system for biological material. Tib, Piecky, and the others had been given serial numbers, from AT044567743 to AT044567749, and no longer possessed names. It soon happened that from number 44567746—from Moosy—an eye, nose, and one kidney were harvested for cosmetic use. Tibsnorg submitted a memo in opposition to the selection of AT044567746, but it was ignored, no doubt outvoted by others who were experts. He was very upset by this.
Next was the Dags numbered 44567748. The surgery was fataclass="underline" from the Dags was taken the esophagus and stomach, liver, intestines, both hands, and penis (though not the testicles). What was left could not live, so the skin, muscles, and bones of the arms were put in a tissue culture bank, and number 44567748 was removed from the database.
The value of each organ was calculated on the basis of what it had cost to maintain the individual. It was easiest to make such a calculation when the individual’s number was removed, because in that case one simply divided the cost of maintenance of the biological material among the recipients of the organs harvested, by organ (using the proper coefficient). When the organs were not harvested together, the method of calculation applied became complicated and unclear, and Tibsnorg suspected that only the computer system could keep track of it.
He wondered what number he would have been given, if not for Babylonis. Would it have come after Tib’s?
At the cafeteria, he no longer sat alone. He began talking with the driver who worked on the trucks that carried loads from the metal mines. The man called himself Abraham Dringenboom, and he was tall, thickset, and extremely proud of his name, which had been dug out of some library of history. Dringenboom had a deep, powerful voice and spoke very loudly, which made Tibsnorg uncomfortable, because ordinarily the cafeteria was silent. It seemed to him that everyone was watching them, though that made little sense, seeing as no one was interested in them. Besides, many of the diners had poor hearing or couldn’t hear at all.
“Tibsnorg Pieckymoosy…,” boomed Dringenboom. “A strange name. Why did you choose it?”
“It’s many names,” Tibsnorg replied quietly. “There are many in me.”
“Hmm,” muttered Dringenboom. “So you made it up… It’s not wise to get too close to the others in your Room… You know, today they said that the average lifespan of a person now is as much as twenty-four years.” He was changing the subject. “I think it’s too good to believe. I think they’re fiddling with the medical statistics a little, so we won’t feel bad.”
“How do they arrive at that figure?” asked Tibsnorg, interested. “Is it for all individuals born or only for persons?”
“Are you kidding? For persons, of course. Less than a tenth are born alive.”
Tibsnorg scrutinized Dringenboom. The driver seemed completely normal. True, he wore a gray tunic and trousers, so his body was not visible, but apart from the harelip that had been operated on, the scar from it mostly hidden by a graying stubble, nothing indicated any departure from the norm.
As if reading his thoughts, Dringenboom said, “My entire trunk was covered with warts on long, disgusting stalks. I had them removed. But the biggest problem is between my legs.” Dringenboom grimaced. “But don’t feel sorry for me, Tibsnorg. I’ll buy myself the proper equipment and make five living kids with it. I’ve already put 1620 money away,” he added, seeing Tibsnorg’s disbelief.
That much money was inconceivable: Tibsnorg could save only 22.24 money from each ten-day period. For the sum of 1620 one could buy all of Tib-that is, of course, as biological material. More and more often her slender, graceful figure appeared before him, surrounded by a storm of colorful hair. His dreams were invariably about the Room. In and out of those dreams moved familiar shapes, but Tib was always present.
Tibsnorg rented a better room, one that had a window. Rooms at the surface were a rarity, so he was surprised that his new room-though a little smaller and with two viewscreens instead of three-cost only eight money more than the previous one. He understood the reason when he learned how high the radiation background was in rooms at the surface. But the view was worth it. He would spend hours looking at the opaque, leaden clouds that hung over the bare dun hills. The edge of the glacier wasn’t visible, because his window was too low. The glacier could be seen only from the observation tower, and only on clear days or with good binoculars.
The scene, though it wasn’t lovely like the ones on the viewscreen, drew him with irresistible force. That was probably why he applied for the position of driver of an outside transporter. Another motive was the high salary, which would allow him to save a considerable sum in a relatively short time.
At the transport bureau he was told to go to an official in a wheelchair. The man didn’t come much above the desk, but there was something in his eyes that advised caution. When Tibsnorg presented the application, the man looked him over.
“Are you neuter or sexed?”
“Neuter,” Tibsnorg lied, aware that being neuter was a condition for the job. The official nodded and with a disproportionately small hand entered something on the keyboard. He regarded the screen, and the lines of his face hardened. Even before he spoke, it was clear that the interview was over. Dringenboom almost struck Tibsnorg when he heard what had happened. In a fury, he pulled from the pocket of his worksuit his indicator-a small, pink piece of plastic.
“Look at that, idiot!” he said, pointing a thick finger at the plastic. His finger wobbled over the pink rectangle. “When that turns red, I can throw out my calendar…” His eyes flashed in his deeply tanned face. He made so much money, he could tan his skin. “Are you in such a hurry to get into the ground?!” he snarled.