Futureland. Part 34

"Ten million--credits not dollars. That's why you can't decide. It costs a lotta money to decide. And they only pay you enough to get fat and sloppy."

Neil wanted to talk more but a message came in from Un Fitt and Neil had been waiting for instructions.

"Sorry, Nina. I should read this."

"Okay, baby. See you later."

h.e.l.lo, Neil, I'm very happy with your work on this project. You have gone far past the expectations General Specifix had for you. The design of the Third Eye, though not perfect, will allow others to hone your ideas into a perfectly running unit. You're right when you say that memory is the only real question. But other researchers in other GTs have come up with an interesting solution. Your work has been exemplary and I am going to give you a paid holiday to Maya for two ten-spans. All we need before you go is a comprehensive write-up of the protocols you feel have yet to be set up and programmed.

Neil read the words with a growing sense of failure. He had believed that the Third Eye project was his, that he would be the only one to work on it. Now he was being told that he was still on a production lane, that he was only a nameless step in the creation of just another product. He tried to do the write-up he was asked for: he called up the beginnings of the macroflow he'd generated describing the logic units needed to fulfill the parameters of the Third Eye. For over an hour he stared at the boxes and circles used to exhibit the flow of data, the speed of perception in the various skins, and the protocols for translation into octal code. Neil looked at the screen but it didn't make any sense to him.

"I'm going home," he told Athria at just past noon.

"Okay, honey. You sick?"

"No. See you tomorrow."

At home Neil didn't drink or watch the vid; he didn't dream about the coast of California or antic.i.p.ate Nina's late night visit. All he did was sit in his chair and think about Un Fitt and how he had been robbed of his chance to succeed. He knew that these thoughts were ridiculous, that someone who had expertise in biology and neurology would have to take over. But Un Fitt had implied that the work Neil had done would have to be done over. Why wasn't he allowed to get first crack at rewrites?

The vid phone came on just past twenty-three hours.

"Neil?" Nina said. Her face took up the whole screen so he couldn't tell where she was.

"Hey, honey."

"What's wrong?"

"They took me off the Third Eye project."

"Moving it down the lane?"

"Yeah."

"That's okay, baby. You'll get another project."

"I wasn't finished with this one yet."

"I know, babe. We all felt like that on our first project. My first time out I was working on a facet of an automated construction machine. I didn't get nearly as far as you did but I still cried when they moved it on."

"Yeah, I guess."

"I got somethin'll make you feel better."

"What?"

"I'm up in a room with two s.e.x-worker girls. I met 'em at the library. I told 'em about you and they said they wanted you to come with us. They got all kindsa toys. Come on. It'll be fun."

"Not tonight, babe. I mean, I'm too sad."

Neil expected her to throw a fit. She did that whenever he refused her "feel better cures."

"That's okay, honey. I know it must be hard. You get some sleep and I'll come by about five or so."

"Okay," Neil said. "See ya."

Just then Nina was pulled away from the screen by an Asian woman. The woman was tall and there was a serious look on her face. She pulled Nina to her and kissed her hard. She snaked her hand under Nina's plaid skirt and lifted her off her feet. When Neil heard his lover's loud moan of pleasure he switched off the vid.

Dear M Un Fitt, After careful consideration I have decided that I can no longer work with GP-9. I've come to this decision because I expected a greater level of independence at the job. For the past year I thought I was out of the prod lane but now I see that I'm still in the same situation. The fact that you've taken the Third Eye project from me without hearing how I might answer some of the technical problems proves that I have been misled. I would rather work on a GT that was honest in its appraisal of my work than be fooled by a UC who doesn't even come in to meet us face-to-face.

Neil Hawthorne As soon as Neil transmitted his resignation he regretted it. What would he do back at some GT like LAVE-AITCH-27? How could he survive as just another prod after experiencing GEE-PRO-9?

He was thinking of sending another e-mail to retract his resignation when the vid phone bleeped.

Dear Neil, We are sorry that you are so upset by the necessity of relieving you of the Eye project. It is true, we are a production lane as you said, but our workers develop their skills rather than spend years repeating the same functions. Your next project would have been even more challenging. It is my hope that we can somehow convince you to stay with us.

UF.

Dear Un Fitt, My argument with you is not about the necessity of taking my job away but the fact that no one discussed the decision with me.

NH.

Dear NH, The decision is made on a higher level. Your work has a larger purpose and cannot be discussed because you are not aware of the greater plan. The reason GP- 9 and other GTs around the country are structured the way they are is to get the best work out of the prods. Your happiness makes for better work. But some decisions must be made without your input.

UF.

How can I accept what you're saying now when for the last year I have been working as a free agent? I come in when I want to, work as I will. I've learned more in the past twelve months than I did in my whole life before I came here. I'm sure that if I knew the greater plan that I would be even more valuable to the system.

Neil, Sometimes knowledge is a dangerous thing. What you know might get into the wrong hands one day. The more information that slips out, the greater danger that will face all of us. We appreciate your pique but we also hope that you will trust our judgment.

Un, We're both men, equal under the genetic laws of 2025. In GEE-PRO-9 there are no bosses, no superiors. The only way that I can see continuing is by being trusted with the purpose of our work so that I can understand the decisions being made.

I am not a man, Neil. Neither am I a woman.

If not man or woman, what kind of person are you?

I am machine, Neil.

If you're a machine, then who is your programmer?

G.o.d.

Neil sat back in his chair after this last communication. He didn't know what to think about the claims of Un Fitt. He was afraid to ask any more, and so he did not answer. After a few minutes another message came in.

I know that you must be very upset about the loss of your project and about the nature of your controller. Take a while, take your vacation. And when you come back we will talk again. You are one of my favorites, Neil. Please, think about yourself.

"Hi, baby," Nina said at five the next morning.

Neil saw the numbers 5:03 floating aimlessly around the otherwise empty vid chamber. He realized now for the first time that she was always on time.

"Hey."

She kissed him on the lips. Her breath smelled strongly of whoever it was that she had been kissing that night. The tall Asian, Neil thought, or maybe another.

"Don't be mad, baby," Nina said. She sat down at his feet and played with his kneecaps, running her fingertips around in circles. "It was just nuthin'. I axed you to come wit' me. You would'a had fun if you wasn't so mad."

"I'm not mad, honey. I know who you are. At least I know who you are."

"What's that mean?"

"I'm going on a vacation," Neil said. "Goin' to Maya for two weeks."

"Since when?"

"Since yesterday. When they took the Third Eye from me they gave me a bonus vacation."

"You gonna go?"

"I think I have to. I have to think." Neil smiled at the order of his words.

"I don't want you to go."

"Why not? Then you won't have me whining at you to come over. You could have all the hefty-men and s.e.x-worker girls you want, every night."

"I don't want that!" she yelled. She jumped up and slapped him hard across the face. Then she collapsed in his lap, crying.

Neil put his hands on her heaving shoulder blades. He said nothing, felt nothing, wondered nothing except about the nature of his Unit Controller.

8.

On the following Friday Neil was one of nine hundred forty-seven pa.s.sengers on the t.i.tan 010 air cruise ship landing on Maya. He had a second-cla.s.s seat, which was better than most senators rated. People all over that sleeper cabin asked him what position he held at General Specifix. Two flight aides, one a woman and the other a man, gave him their hotel numbers on the island.

On the tarmac Neil was blinded by sunlight reflecting off the bright red rock that composed the synthetic island.

"M Hawthorne?"

"Yes?"

"I'm your driver--Oscar Torres." The large man was brown-skinned. He had a heroic mustache and two fingers missing from the hand he used to shake with. "I will take you to the Crimson Chalet and drive you wherever you need to go while you are here."

"Who hired you?" Neil asked Torres from the backseat of the luxurious, German-made Century Bug. The green chromium car sped down the small lanes of the perfect little Hindu city that was the tourist hub of Maya.

"The travel bureau of the island called me and told me that you were my only responsibility for the next few days," the big man said. His mouth, Neil thought, seemed always on the verge of laughter. "And that I was not to accept any gratuity from you whatsoever."

"Who paid them?"

"Don't you know?"

"I know who sent me here but I thought I'd like to find out what department did the work, so I could thank them--everything has worked out so well."

The hotel lobby was the size of Grand Central Station and every bit as busy. Carrying Neil's two suitcases, Oscar weaved through the crowd of noisy tourists, bellboys, taxidrivers, and undercover security agents. Finally they came to a small window that had no one waiting on line.

"First cla.s.s only, M," said the small woman who sat inside the window.

"That's my boss. First cla.s.s all the way."

The woman, who had India Indian deep brown skin and shimmering blond hair, leaned forward to get a glimpse of Neil, who was wearing a worse-for-wear coal gray andro-suit.

"Name?" she asked suspiciously.

"Neil Hawthorne virtual mid--um, Neil Hawthorne."

The woman pressed two b.u.t.tons and then her dour expression changed. "Welcome, M Hawthorne," she said brightly. "We've been waiting for you. You have been given the Neptune Suite above the upper level of the reef. Are these all your bags?"

"Yes."

Four melodious chimes issued from somewhere behind her desk. A moment later a tall man appeared, wearing a uniform that was the same color red as the island, the outer walls of the chalet, the ceilings, floors, inner walls, and almost everything else that Neil had so far seen.

"The Neptune Suite," the woman said.

The big man took the bag from Oscar and said, "Follow me, sir."

"Here's my number, M Hawthorne," Oscar said, pressing a sc.r.a.p of paper into Neil's sweating palm.

The cavernous suite was the pale blue of a pastel artist's rendition of the sea. An incredibly large, green-tinted window led out onto a deck easily five times the size of Neil's apartment. From there he could see most of the southern part of Maya. There were tens of thousands of tourists and workers down in the town and spread out across the orange sands of the beach. But even with all that traffic only the sound of the ocean reached Neil's spectacular perch.

"M Hawthorne?" a girl's voice asked timidly.

She was little more than a child, Neil thought. She stood in the doorway naked and barefoot. Her pale white skin seemed to belong to the night and its lunar light. She had no hair, anywhere. No brows or p.u.b.es or even an eyelash. And she was beautiful.

"Who are you?"

"Your house servant--Charity."

"What's that?"

"I'm here for your needs. I can cook and clean, run errands and sleep in your bed. I am here for you."

"You work for the hotel?"