“You can afford a sun lamp,” said Tibsnorg quietly.
“And what, stupid, is that worth?… You can have woman by the bunch… even if you’re missing everything between your legs but balls. The balls are what’s important… the rest of it, the meat, doesn’t cost more than 600, 800 money.”
“I’m all right physically,” Tibsnorg blurted. “It’s my nervous system that’s not complete.”
“That’s even cheaper… I’m telling you, you won’t be able to drive the women away. They’ll pull you apart. You should live, not die, my friend…”
Tibsnorg thought of telling him about Tib, but changed his mind, and the conversation ended there.
Abe Dringenboom was the only person Tibsnorg saw regularly. With random acquaintances at the table Tibsnorg exchanged only a few words. In contrast with his life in the Room, he led a solitary existence. He didn’t seek out people; he lived with his memories. The women he met in the cafeteria or passed in the corridors couldn’t compare with Tib: either they were ugly or their deformities were too evident. He began to wear, according to the rules, the red stripe that signified that he was not neuter, but that made no change whatever in his behavior. Perhaps he grew a little curt with the women, who now began to approach him. Possibly, had he worn the two red stripes that indicated full function, the pulling apart that Dringenboom warned about would have happened, but with one stripe Tibsnorg was left in peace.
Several days later, Dringenboom brought unpleasant news.
“I have cancer,” he said in a dull voice.
“So? Half the population has cancer,” said Tibsnorg with a shrug.
“Mine’s in phase C,” said Dringenboom.
“You have 1620 money, you’ll be all right,” said Tibsnorg.
“It’s 1648,” corrected Dringenboom. “But it’s too little, it’s worth shit… I have the kind that spreads quickly. To cure it, I’d need at least one and a half thousand, and then there’d be nothing left for a dick.”
Tibsnorg was annoyed. “Why did they let it get to phase C? That’s advanced. You could sue the medical division,” he said.
“It’s my fault,” muttered Dringenboom. “I didn’t go for the tests, because they cost and I wanted to save up before my indicator went completely red.”
“But you can get free medical care, like every person.”
“No thanks.” Dringenboom’s eyes were lusterless, and in his voice you could hear the lisp from his harelip operation. “They’ll leave me my brain, eyes, and part of my nervous system, and the rest they’ll take out and burn because of all the metastases. Then they’ll make me part of a control unit for a shoveler in a mine or for a conveyer belt…”
“I think they could cure you another way than by replacing the diseased organs. But they don’t do that for economic reasons. The demand for organs would fall if they did that…” Saying this, Tibsnorg began to calculate: 1648 money could buy all of Tib. And Dringenboom would be dead soon in any case. His indicator was already very dark. How many organs could Dringenboom buy? Twelve? Fourteen? Tibsnorg thought, “He’ll lose his body in the end anyway, and for him that’s worse than death. How can I get his money?”
Dringenboom looked at Tibsnorg, saying nothing.
10
Dringenboom changed after that. He became reticent and less sure of himself. When Tibsnorg told him about Tib, he shook his head wearily and said it was ridiculous, Tibsnorg should pick a woman for himself among persons and not go looking among biological material. To purchase an entire Tib he would probably have to save for a lifetime, and long before that happened, others would buy different parts of her body.
But Dringenboom agreed to take Tibsnorg for a ride on his huge truck. He carried loads from a fairly distant open mine. The run went through hills covered with wind-driven gray dust.
“All it takes is a dozen breaths of that,” Dringenboom said, baring his teeth between his asymmetrical lips. “But the dust has to get past a pretty good filter,” he laughed, “so instead it takes a few hundred thousand breaths.”
The open mine was the ruins of an ancient city, from which the metal was being reclaimed. A giant shovel dug into the twisted walls of a former residence or factory. Dringenboom waited on line for the metal. Finally a portion of reinforced concrete, rubble, and dust was emptied into his truck.
“I make four, five runs a day… Central always tells me the path to take that has the lowest radiation level. Because the path changes, according to how the wind blows or how the rain or snow falls.” He pointed at the tiny screen. “The radiation level is constantly updated. Today it’s low, but sometimes the screen makes an awful racket… On such days we get a bonus of two or three money.”
On the way back he let Tibsnorg drive a little. It was a matter only of giving the commands, since the truck was computer-controlled.
“If anything goes wrong, the autopilot brings it home,” said Dringenboom. “Like if you pass out. The load can’t be lost.”
On one of the hills stood a solitary little building half buried in dust. It was all in one piece, even to the roof, door, and glass in the windows.
“I’d like to live in that house,” said Dringenboom, “and not in the city.”
“Live on the surface?”
“Your room is on the surface, Tibsnorg. One can do it, with enough shielding…”
11
At last the day came that had to come. The day that Tibsnorg had imagined in many different variations, but never thought that when it came, it would find him so unprepared.
He was working, as usual, at the viewscreen. He had saved up 48 money plus 320 of deferred credit. The screen presented the next order requiring a decision. A neat row of green letters and numbers informed him, with precision, that for AT044567744 it was proposed that the arms, legs, and trunk with neck be removed for one female recipient, the head for another. The brain would be terminated, and of course the code would be removed from the register.
“The woman must have had to work hard and long to afford such a body,” he thought bitterly. “And the other woman, she must have liked the slender face and blue eyes in the catalog, liked them tremendously, to put up with deafness. Unless she saved enough to buy another pair of ears…”
He had known all along that this would happen, yet now he hesitated. He had thought he could save more money for this moment. But he had to act quickly, in this situation that was not the one he had imagined.
“Shit,” he said over and over.
He asked the system for time to think, explained that he was considering the possibility of only one recipient’s acquiring specimen AT044567744, as that would be more profitable. His request would delay the decision a little. He disconnected the cameras, got up from his desk, and left. His stride was efficient, swift. Exertion of will at every step had become a habit with him.
It was not far to the warehouse of biological material. He had already learned from the system in which room she was being kept. The system had also given him all the entry passwords. The sleepy guard at the massive metal door did not challenge him. Tibsnorg was covered with sweat. The elevator went with terrifying slowness. At last-the right level. An endless corridor with identical doors. What he intended to do was unheard of.
He came to door AT0445677. It opened automatically. Along the walls of the next corridor were stations that held biological material-dozens of individuals of different sizes and different degrees of deformity. All were without clothes; all were in a web of wires, electrodes. At first he counted nervously, then saw that there were numbers over each station. A long time passed before he reached her. She stood with open eyes. Their eyes met. She knew him. Disconnecting the wires took a few moments. It took longer to undo the straps that constrained her arms and legs. She immediately pressed herself, her face, to him.