This Perfect Day Part 7

"I hope so," Chip said. He stood and pushed back his chair. "Good luck," Hush said; Sparrow and Leopard said it too. Lilac said it last: "Good luck, Chip."

"What happens," he asked, "if I resist the urge to confess?"

"We'll know," King said, "and one of us will get in touch with you about ten days after the treatment."

"How will you know?"

"We'll know."

His arm was taken by Snowflake's hand. "All right," he said. "Thank you, all of you."

They said "Don't mention it," and "You're welcome, Chip," and "Glad to be of help." Something sounded strange, and then-as Snowflake led him from the room-he realized what it was: the not-being-said of "Thank Uni."

They walked slowly, Snowflake holding his arm not like a nurse but like a girl walking with her first boyfriend.

"It's hard to believe," he said, "that what I can feel now and see now-isn't all there is."

"It isn't," she said. "Not even half. You'll find out."

"I hope so."

"You will. I'm sure of it."

He smiled and said, "Were you sure about those two who tried and didn't make it?"

"No," she said. Then, "Yes, I was sure of one, but not of the other."

"What's step two?" he asked.

"First get through step one."

"Are there more than two?"

"No. Two, if it works, gets you a major reduction. That's when you really come alive. And speaking of steps, there are three right ahead of us, going up."

They went up the three steps and walked on. They were back in the plaza. It was perfectly silent, with even the breeze gone.

"The f.u.c.king's the best part," Snowflake said. "It gets much better, much more intense and exciting, and you'll be able to do it almost every night."

"It's incredible."

"And please remember," she said, "that I'm the one who found you. If I catch you even looking at Sparrow I'll kill you."

Chip started, and told himself not to be foolish.

"Excuse me," she said; "I'll act aggressively toward you. Maxi-aggressively."

"It's all right," he said. "I'm not shocked."

"Not much."

"What about Lilac?" he said. "May I look at her?"

"All you want; she loves King."

"Oh?"

"With a pre-U pa.s.sion. He's the one who started the group; first her, then Leopard and Hush, then me, then Sparrow."

Their footsteps became louder and resonant. She stopped him. "We're here," she said. He felt her fingers picking at the side of the bandage; he lowered his head. She began unwinding, peeling bandage from margins of skin that turned instantly cool. She unwound more and more and finally took the cotton from his eyes. He blinked them and stretched them wide.

She was close to him and moonlit, looking at him in a way that seemed challenging while she thrust bandage into her medicenter coveralls. Somehow she had got her pale mask back on-but it wasn't a mask, he saw with a shock; it was her face. She was light. Lighter than any member he had ever seen, except a few near-sixty ones. She was almost white. Almost as white as snow.

"Mask neatly in place," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"That's all right," she said, and smiled. "We're all odd in one way or another. Look at that eye." She was thirty-five or so, sharp-featured and intelligent-looking, her hair freshly clipped.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"I said it's all right."

"Are you supposed to let me see what you look like?"

"I'll tell you something," she said. "If you don't come through I don't give a fight if the whole bunch of us get normalized. In fact, I think I'd prefer it." She took his head in both hands and kissed him, her tongue prying at his lips. It slid in and flickered in his mouth. She held his head tight, pushed her groin against his, and rubbed circularly. He felt a responsive stiffening and put his hands to her back. He worked his tongue tentatively against hers.

She withdrew her mouth. "Considering that it's the middle of the week," she said, "I'm encouraged."

"Christ, Marx, Wood, and Wei," he said. "Is that how you all kiss?"

"Only me, brother," she said, "only me."

They did it again.

"Go on home now," she said. "Don't touch scanners."

He backed away from her. "I'll see you next month," he said.

"You fighting well better had," she said. "Good luck."

He went out into the plaza and headed toward the Inst.i.tute. He looked back once. There was only empty pa.s.sageway between the blank moon-white buildings.

2.

BOB RO, seated behind his desk, looked up and smiled. "You're late," he said.

"I'm sorry," Chip said. He sat down.

Bob closed a white folder with a red file tab on it. "How are you?" he asked.

"Fine," Chip said.

"Have a good week?"

"Mm-hmm."

Bob studied him for a moment, his elbow on his chair arm, his fingers rubbing the side of his nose. "Anything in particular you want to talk about?" he asked.

Chip was silent, and then shook his head. "No," he said.

"I hear you spent half of yesterday afternoon doing somebody else's work."

Chip nodded. "I took a sample from the wrong section of the IC box," he said.

"I see," Bob said, and smiled and grunted.

Chip looked questioningly at him.

"Joke," Bob said. "IC, I see."

"Oh," Chip said, and smiled.

Bob propped his jaw on his hand, the side of a finger lying against his lips. "What happened Friday?" he asked.

"Friday?"

"Something about using the wrong microscope."

Chip looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh," he said. "Yes. I didn't really use it. I just went into the chamber. I didn't change any of the settings."

Bob said, "It looks like it wasn't such a good week."

"No, I guess it wasn't," Chip said.

"Peace SK says you had trouble Sat.u.r.day night."

"Trouble?"

"s.e.xually."

Chip shook his head. "I didn't have any trouble," he said. "I just wasn't in the mood, that's all."

"She says you tried and couldn't erect."

"Well I felt I ought to do it, for her sake, but I just wasn't in the mood."

Bob watched him, not saying anything.

"I was tired," Chip said.

"It seems you've been tired a lot lately. Is that why you weren't at your photography club meeting Friday night?"

"Yes," he said. "I turned in early."

"How do you feel now? Are you tired now?"

"No. I feel fine."

Bob looked at him, then straightened in his chair and smiled. "Okay, brother," he said, "touch and go."

Chip put his bracelet to the scanner of Bob's telecomp and stood up.

"See you next week," Bob said.

"Yes."

"On time."

Chip, having turned away, turned back and said, "Beg pardon?"

"On time next week," Bob said.

"Oh," Chip said. "Yes." He turned and went out of the cubicle.

He thought he had done it well but there was no way of knowing, and as his treatment came nearer he grew increasingly anxious. The thought of a significant rise in sensation became more intriguing by the hour, and Snowflake, King, Lilac, and the others became more attractive and admirable. So what if they smoked tobacco? They were happy and healthy members-no, people, not members!-who had found an escape from sterility and sameness and universal mechanical efficiency. He wanted to see them and be with them. He wanted to kiss and embrace Snowflake's unique lightness; to talk with King as an equal, friend to friend; to hear more of Lilac's strange but provocative ideas. "Your body is yours, not Uni's"-what a disturbing pre-U thing to say! If there were any basis for it, it could have implications that might lead him to-he couldn't think what; a jolting change of some sort in his att.i.tude toward everything!

That was the night before his treatment. He lay awake for hours, then climbed with bandaged hands up a snow-covered mountaintop, smoked tobacco pleasurably under the guidance of a friendly smiling King, opened Snowflake's coveralls and found her snow-white with a throat-to-groin red cross, drove an early wheel-steered car through the hallways of a huge Genetic Suffocation Center, and had a new bracelet inscribed Chip and a window in his room through which he watched a lovely nude girl watering a lilac bush. She beckoned impatiently and he went to her-and woke feeling fresh and energetic and cheerful, despite those dreams, more vivid and convincing than any of the five or six he had had in the past.

That morning, a Friday, he had his treatment. The tickle-buzz-sting seemed to last a fraction of a second less than usual, and when he left the unit, pushing down his sleeve, he still felt good and himself, a dreamer of vivid dreams, a cohort of unusual people, an outwitter of Family and Uni. He walked falsely-slowly to the Center. It struck him that this of all times was when he should go on with the slowdown, to justify the even greater reduction that step two, whatever it was and whenever he took it, would be aimed at achieving. He was pleased with himself for having realized this, and wondered why King and the others hadn't suggested it. Perhaps they had thought he wouldn't be able to do anything after his treatment. Those other two members had apparently fallen apart completely, unlucky brothers.

He made a good small mistake that afternoon, started to type a report with the mike held wrong-side up while another 663B was looking. He felt a bit guilty about doing it, but he did it anyway.

That evening, to his surprise, he really dozed off during TV, although it was something fairly interesting, a tour of a new radio telescope in Isr. And later, during the house photography club meeting, he could hardly keep his eyes open. He excused himself early and went to his room. He undressed without bothering to chute his used coveralls, got into bed without putting on pajamas, and tapped out the light. He wondered what dreams he would have.

He woke feeling frightened, suspecting that he was sick and in need of help. What was wrong? Had he done something he shouldn't have?

It came to him, and he shook his head, scarcely able to believe it. Was it real? Was it possible? Had he been so-so contaminated by that group of pitiably sick members that he had purposely made mistakes, had tried to deceive Bob RO (and maybe succeeded!), had thought thoughts hostile to his entire loving Family? Oh, Christ, Marx, Wood, and Weil He thought of what the young one, "Lilac," had told him: to remember that it was a chemical that was making him think he was sick, a chemical that had been infused into him without his consent. His consent! As if consent had anything to do with a treatment given to preserve one's health and well-being, an integral part of the health and well-being of the entire Family! Even before the Unification, even in the chaos and madness of the twentieth century, a member's consent wasn't asked before he was treated against typhic or typho or whatever it was. Consent! And he had listened without challenging her!

The first chime sounded and he jumped from his bed, anxious to make up for his unthinkable wrongs. He chuted the day before's coveralls, urined, washed, cleaned his teeth, evened up his hair, put on fresh coveralls, made his bed. He went to the dining hall and claimed his cake and tea, sat among other members and wanted to help them, to give them something, to demonstrate that he was loyal and loving, not the sick offender he had been the day before. The member on his left ate the last of his cake. "Would you like some of mine?" Chip asked.