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Варли, Джон - Варли - Платежное поручение(engl)Фантастика >> Зарубежная фантастика >> Варли, Джон Читать целиком дФНМ бЮПКХ. оКЮРЕФМНЕ ОНПСВЕМХЕ(engl)
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Copyright (C) by John Varley.
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PAYCHECK
ALL AT ONCE he was in motion. Around him smooth jets hummed. He was on
a small private rocket cruiser, moving leisurely across the afternoon sky,
between cities.
"Ugh!" he said, sitting up in his seat and rubbing his head. Beside him
Earl Rethrick was staring keenly at him, his eyes bright.
"Coming around?"
"Where are we?" Jennings shook his head, trying to clear the dull ache.
"Or maybe I should ask that a different way." Already, he could see that it
was not late fall. It was spring. Below the cruiser the fields were green.
The last thing he remembered was stepping into an elevator with Rethrick.
And it was late fall. And in New York.
"Yes," Rethrick said. "It's almost two years later. You'll find a lot
of things have changed. The Government fell a few months ago. The new
Government is even stronger. The SP, Security Police, have almost unlimited
power. They're teaching the schoolchildren to inform, now. But we all saw
that coming. Let's see, what else? New York is larger. I understand they've
finished filling in San Francisco Bay."
"What I want to know is what the hell I've been doing the last two
years!" Jennings lit a cigarette nervously, pressing the strike end. "Will
you tell me that?"
"No. Of course I won't tell you that."
"Where are we going?"
"Back to the New York Office. Where you first met me. Remember? You
probably remember it better than I. After all, it was just a day or so ago
for you."
Jennings nodded. Two years! Two years out of his life, gone forever. It
didn't seem possible. He had still been considering, debating, when he
stepped into the elevator. Should he change his mind? Even if he were
getting that much money -- and it was a lot, even for him -- it didn't
really seem worth it. He would always wonder what work he had been doing.
Was it legal? Was it -- But that was past speculation, now. Even while he
was trying to make up his mind the curtain had fallen. He looked ruefully
out the window at the afternoon sky. Below, the earth was moist and alive.
Spring, spring two years later. And what did he have to show for the two
years?
"Have I been paid?" he asked. He slipped his wallet out and glanced
into it. "Apparently not."
"No. You'll be paid at the Office. Kelly will pay you."
"The whole works at once?"
"Fifty thousand credits."
Jennings smiled. He felt a little better, now that the sum had been
spoken aloud. Maybe it wasn't so bad, after all. Almost like being paid to
sleep. But he was two years older; he had just that much less to live. It
was like selling part of himself, part of his life. And life was worth
plenty, these days. He shrugged. Anyhow, it was in the past.
"We're almost there," the older man said. The robot pilot dropped the
cruiser down, sinking toward the ground. The edge of New York City became
visible below them. "Well, Jennings, I may never see you again." He held out
his hand. "It's been a pleasure working with you. We did work together, you
know. Side by side. You're one of the best mechanics I've ever seen. We were
right in hiring you, even at that salary. You paid us back many times --
although you don't realize it."
"I'm glad you got your money's worth."
"You sound angry."
"No. I'm just trying to get used to the idea of being two years older."
Rethrick laughed. "You're still a very young man. And you'll feel
better when she gives you your pay."
They stepped out onto the tiny rooftop field of the New York office
building. Rethrick led him over to an elevator. As the doors slid shut
Jennings got a mental shock. This was the last thing he remembered, this
elevator. After that he had blacked out.
"Kelly will be glad to see you," Rethrick said, as they came out into a
lighted hall. "She asks about you, once in a while."
"Why?"
"She says you're good-looking." Rethrick pushed a code key against a
door. The door responded, swinging wide. They entered the luxurious office
of Rethrick Construction. Behind a long mahogany desk a young woman was
sitting, studying a report.
"Kelly," Rethrick said, "look whose time finally expired."
The girl looked up, smiling. "Hello, Mr. Jennings. How does it feel to
be back in the world?"
"Fine." Jennings walked over to her. "Rethrick says you're the
paymaster."
Rethrick clapped Jennings on the back. "So long, my friend. I'll go
back to the plant. If you ever need a lot of money in a hurry come around
and we'll work out another contract with you."
Jennings nodded. As Rethrick went back out he sat down beside the desk,
crossing his legs. Kelly slid a drawer open, moving her chair back. "All
right. Your time is up, so Rethrick Construction is ready to pay. Do you
have your copy of the contract?"
Jennings took an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the desk.
"There it is."
Kelly removed a small cloth sack and some sheets of handwritten paper
from the desk drawer. For a time she read over the sheets, her small face
intent.
"What is it?"
"I think you're going to be surprised." Kelly handed him his contract
back. "Read that over again."
"Why?" Jennings unfastened the envelope.
"There's an alternate clause. 'If the party of the second part so
desires, at any time during his time of contract to the aforesaid Rethrick
Construction Company --' "
" 'If he so desires, instead of the monetary sum specified, he may
choose instead, according to his own wish, articles or products which, in
his own opinion, are of sufficient value to stand in lieu of the sum --' "
Jennings snatched up the cloth sack, pulling it open. He poured the
contents into his palm. Kelly watched.
"Where's Rethrick?" Jennings stood up. "If he has an idea that this --"
"Rethrick has nothing to do with it. It was your own request. Here,
look at this." Kelly passed him the sheets of paper. "In your own hand. Read
them. It was your idea, not ours. Honest." She smiled up at him. "This
happens every once in a while with people we take on contract. During their
time they decide to take something else instead of money. Why, I don't know.
But they come out with their minds clean, having agreed --"
Jennings scanned the pages. It was his own writing. There was no doubt
of it. His hands shook. "I can't believe it. Even if it is my own writing."
He folded up the paper, his jaw set. "Something was done to me while I was
back there. I never would have agreed to this."
"You must have had a reason. I admit it doesn't make sense. But you
don't know what factors might have persuaded you, before your mind was
cleaned. You aren't the first. There have been several others before you."
Jennings stared down at what he held in his palm. From the cloth sack
he had spilled a little assortment of items. A code key. A ticket stub. A
parcel receipt. A length of fine wire. Haifa poker chip, broken across. A
green strip of cloth. A bus token.
"This, instead of fifty thousand credits," he murmured. "Two years. .
."
He went out of the building, onto the busy afternoon street. He was
still dazed, dazed and confused. Had he been swindled? He felt in his pocket
for the little trinkets, the wire, the ticket stub, all the rest. That, for
two years of work! But he had seen his own handwriting, the statement of
waiver, the request for the substitution. Like Jack and the Beanstalk. Why?
What for? What had made him do it?
He turned, starting down the sidewalk. At the corner he stopped for a
surface cruiser that was turning.
"All right, Jennings. Get in."
His head jerked up. The door of the cruiser was open. A man was
kneeling, pointing a heat-rifle straight at his face. A man in blue-green.
The Security Police.
Jennings got in. The door closed, magnetic locks slipping into place
behind him. Like a vault. The cruiser glided off down the street. Jennings
sank back against the seat. Beside him the SP man lowered his gun. On the
other side a second officer ran his hands expertly over him, searching for
weapons. He brought out Jenning's wallet and the handful of trinkets. The
envelope and contract.
"What does he have?" the driver said.
"Wallet, money. Contract with Rethrick Construction. No weapons." He
gave Jennings back his things.
"What's this all about?" Jennings said.
"We want to ask you a few questions. That's all. You've been working
for Rethrick?"
"Yes."
"Two years?"
"Almost two years."
"At the Plant?"
Jennings nodded. "I suppose so."
The officer leaned toward him. "Where is that Plant, Mr. Jennings.
Where is it located?"
"I don't know."
The two officers looked at each other. The first one moistened his
lips, his face sharp and alert. "You don't know? The next question. The
last. In those two years, what kind of work did you do? What was your job?"
"Mechanic. I repaired electronic machinery."
"What kind of electronic machinery?"
"I don't know." Jennings looked up at him. He could not help smiling,
his lips twisting ironically. "I'm sorry, but I don't know. It's the truth."
There was silence.
"What do you mean, you don't know? You mean you worked on machinery for
two years without knowing what it was? Without even knowing where you were?"
Jennings roused himself. "What is all this? What did you pick me up
for? I haven't done anything. I've been --"
"We know. We're not arresting you. We only want to get information for
our records. About Rethrick Construction. You've been working for them, in
their Plant. In an important capacity. You're an electronic mechanic?"
"Yes."
"You repair high-quality computers and allied equipment?" The officer
consulted his notebook. "You're considered one of the best in the country,
according to this."
Jennings said nothing.
"Tell us the two things we want to know, and you'll be released at
once. Where is Rethrick's Plant? What kind of work are they doing? You
serviced their machines for them, didn't you? Isn't that right? For two
years."
"I don't know. I suppose so. I don't have any idea what I did during
the two years. You can believe me or not." Jennings stared wearily down at
the floor.
"What'll we do?" the driver said finally. "We have no instructions past
this."
"Take him to the station. We can't do any more questioning here."
Beyond the cruiser, men and women hurried along the sidewalk. The streets
were choked with cruisers, workers going to their homes in the country.
"Jennings, why don't you answer us? What's the matter with you? There's
no reason why you can't tell us a couple of simple things like that. Don't
you want to cooperate with your Government? Why should you conceal
information from us?"
"I'd tell you if I knew."
The officer grunted. No one spoke. Presently the cruiser drew up before
a great stone building. The driver turned the motor off, removing the
control cap and putting it in his pocket. He touched the door with a code
key, releasing the magnetic lock.
"What shall we do, take him in? Actually, we don't --"
"Wait." The driver stepped out. The other two went with him, closing
and locking the doors behind them. They stood on the pavement before the
Security Station, talking.
Jennings sat silently, staring down at the floor. The SP wanted to know
about Rethrick Construction. Well, there was nothing he could tell them.
They had come to the wrong person, but how could he prove that? The whole
thing was impossible. Two years wiped clean from his mind. Who would believe
him? It seemed unbelievable to him, too.
His mind wandered, back to when he had first read the ad. It had hit
home, hit him direct. Mechanic wanted, and a general outline of the work,
vague, indirect, but enough to tell him that it was right up his line. And
the pay! Interviews at the Office. Tests, forms. And then the gradual
realization that Rethrick Construction was finding all about him while he
knew nothing about them. What kind of work did they do? Construction, but
what kind? What sort of machines did they have? Fifty thousand credits for
two years. . .
And he had come out with his mind washed clean. Two years, and he
remembered nothing. It took him a long time to agree to that part of the
contract. But he had agreed.
Jennings looked out the window. The three officers were still talking
on the sidewalk, trying to decide what to do with him. He was in a tough
spot. They wanted information he couldn't give, information he didn't know.
But how could he prove it? How could he prove that he had worked two years
and come out knowing no more than when he had gone in! The SP would work him
over. It would be a long time before they'd believe him, and by that time --
He glanced quickly around. Was there any escape? In a second they would
be back. He touched the door. Locked, the triple-ring magnetic locks. He had
worked on magnetic locks many times. He had even designed part of a trigger
core. There was no way to open the doors without the right code key. No way,
unless by some chance he could short out the lock. But with what?
He felt in his pockets. What could he use? If he could short the locks,
blow them out, there was a faint chance. Outside, men and women were
swarming by, on their way home from work. It was past five; the great office
buildings were shutting down, the streets were alive with traffic. If he
once got out they wouldn't dare fire. If he could get out.
The three officers separated. One went up the steps into the Station
building. In a second the others would reenter the cruiser. Jennings dug
into his pocket, bringing out the code key, the ticket stub, the wire. The
wire! Thin wire, thin as human hair. Was it insulated? He unwound it
quickly. No.
He knelt down, running his fingers expertly across the surface of the
door. At the edge of the lock was a thin line, a groove between the lock and
the door. He brought the end of the wire up to it, delicately maneuvering
the wire into the almost invisible space. The wire disappeared an inch or
so. Sweat rolled down Jennings' forehead. He moved the wire a fraction of an
inch, twisting it. He held his breath. The relay should be --
A flash.
Half blinded, he threw his weight against the door. The door fell open,
the lock fused and smoking. Jennings tumbled into the street and leaped to
his feet. Cruisers were all around him, honking and sweeping past. He ducked
behind a lumbering truck, entering the middle lane of traffic. On the
sidewalk he caught a momentary glimpse of the SP men starting after him.
A bus came along, swaying from side to side, loaded with shoppers and
workers. Jennings caught hold of the back rail, pulling himself up onto the
platform. Astonished faces loomed up, pale moons thrust suddenly at him. The
robot conductor was coming toward him, whirring angrily.
"Sir --" the conductor began. The bus was slowing down. "Sir, it is not
allowed --"
"It's all right," Jennings said. He was filled, all at once, with a
strange elation. A moment ago he had been trapped, with no way to escape.
Two years of his life had been lost for nothing. The Security Police had
arrested him, demanding information he couldn't give. A hopeless situation!
But now things were beginning to click in his mind.
He reached into his pocket and brought out the bus token. He put it
calmly into the conductor's coin slot.
"Okay?" he said. Under his feet the bus wavered, the driver hesitating.
Then the bus resumed pace, going on. The conductor turned away, its whirrs
subsiding. Everything was all right. Jennings smiled. He eased past the
standing people, looking for a seat, some place to sit down. Where he could
think.
He had plenty to think about. His mind was racing.
The bus moved on, flowing with the restless stream of urban traffic.
Jennings only half saw the people sitting around him. There was no doubt of
it: he had not been swindled. It was on the level. The decision had actually
been his. Amazingly, after two years of work he had preferred a handful of
trinkets instead of fifty thousand credits. But more amazingly, the handful
of trinkets were turning out to be worth more than the money.
With a piece of wire and a bus token he had escaped from the Security
Police. That was worth plenty. Money would have been useless to him once he
disappeared inside the great stone Station. Even fifty thousand credits
wouldn't have helped him. And there were five trinkets left. He felt around
in his pocket. Five more things. He had used two. The others -- what were
they for? Something as important?
But the big puzzle: how had he -- his earlier self -- known that a
piece of wire and a bus token would save his life?" He had known, all right.
Known in advance. But how? And the other five. Probably they were just as
precious, or would be.
The he of those two years had known things that he did not know now,
things that had been washed away when the company cleaned his mind. Like an
adding machine which had been cleared. Everything was slate-clean. What he
had known was gone, now. Gone, except for seven trinkets, five of which were
still in his pocket.
But the real problem right now was not a problem of speculation. It was
very concrete. The Security Police were looking for him. They had his name
and description. There was no use thinking of going to his apartment -- if
he even still had an apartment. But where, then? Hotels? The SP combed them
daily. Friends? That would mean putting them in jeopardy, along with him. It
was only a question of time before the SP found him, walking along the
street, eating in a restaurant, in a show, sleeping in some rooming house.
The SP were everywhere.
Everywhere? Not quite. When an individual person was defenseless, a
business was not. The big economic forces had managed to remain free,
although virtually everything else had been absorbed by the Government. Laws
that had been eased away from the private person still protected property
and industry. The SP could pick up any given person, but they could not
enter and seize a company, a business. That had been clearly established in
the middle of the twentieth century.
Business, industry, corporations, were safe from the Security Police.
Due process was required. Rethrick Construction was a target of SP interest,
but they could do nothing until some statute was violated. If he could get
back to the Company, get inside its doors, he would be safe. Jennings smiled
grimly. The modern church, sanctuary. It was the Government against the
corporation, rather than the State against the Church. The new Notre Dame of
the world. Where the law could not follow.
Would Rethrick take him back? Yes, on the old basis. He had already
said so. Another two years sliced from him, and then back onto the streets.
Would that help him? He felt suddenly in his pocket. And there were the
remaining trinkets. Surely he had intended them to be used! No, he could not
go back to Rethrick and work another contract time. Something else was
indicated. Something more permanent. Jennings pondered. Rethrick
Construction. What did it construct? What had he known, found out, during
those two years? And why were the SP so interested?
He brought out the five objects and studied them. The green strip of
cloth. The code key. The ticket stub. The parcel receipt. The half poker
chip. Strange, that little things like that could be important.
And Rethrick Construction was involved.
There was no doubt. The answer, all the answers, lay at Rethrick. But
where was Rethrick? He had no idea where the plant was, no idea at all. He
knew where the Office was, the big, luxurious room with the young woman and
her desk. But that was not Rethrick Construction. Did anyone know, beside
Rethrick? Kelly didn't know. Did the SP know?
It was out of town. That was certain. He had gone there by rocket. It
was probably in the United States, maybe in the farmlands, the country,
between cities. What a hell of a situation! Any moment the SP might pick him
up. The next time he might not get away. His only chance, his own real
chance for safety, lay in reaching Rethrick. And his only chance to find out
the things he had to know. The plant -- a place where he had been, but which
he could not recall. He looked down at the five trinkets. Would any of them
help?
A burst of despair swept through him. Maybe it was just coincidence,
the wire and the token. Maybe --
He examined the parcel receipt, turning it over and holding it up to
the light. Suddenly his stomach muscles knotted. His pulse changed. He had
been right. No, it was not a coincidence, the wire and the token. The parcel
receipt was dated two days hence. The parcel, whatever it might be, had not
even been deposited yet. Not for forty-eight more hours.
He looked at the other things. The ticket stub. What good was a ticket
stub? It was creased and bent, folded over, again and again. He couldn't go
anyplace with that. A stub didn't take you anywhere. It only told you where
you had been.
Where you had been!
He bent down, peering at it, smoothing the creases. The printing had
been torn through the middle. Only part of each word could be made out.
PORTOLA T
STUARTSVI
IOW
He smiled. That was it. Where he had been. He could fill in the missing
letters. It was enough. There was no doubt: he had foreseen this, too. Three
of the seven trinkets used. Four left. Stuartsville, Iowa. Was there such a
place? He looked out the window of the bus. The Intercity rocket station was
only a block or so away. He could be there in a second. A quick sprint from
the bus, hoping the Police wouldn't be there to stop him --
But somehow he knew they wouldn't. Not with the other four things in
his pocket. And once he was on the rocket he would be safe. Intercity was
big, big enough to keep free of the SP. Jennings put the remaining trinkets
back into his pocket and stood up, pulling the bellcord.
A moment later he stepped gingerly out onto the sidewalk.
The rocket let him off at the edge of town, at a tiny brown field. A
few disinterested porters moved about, stacking luggage, resting from the
heat of the sun.
Jennings crossed the field to the waiting room, studying the people
around him. Ordinary people, workmen, businessmen, housewives. Stuartsville
was a small middle Western town. Truck drivers. High school kids.
He went through the waiting room, out onto the street. So this was
where Rethrick's Plant was located -- perhaps. If he had used the stub
correctly. Anyhow, something was here, or he wouldn't have included the stub
with the other trinkets.
Stuartsville, Iowa. A faint plan was beginning to form in the back of
his mind, still vague and nebulous. He began to walk, his hands in his
pockets, looking around him. A newspaper office, lunch counters, hotels,
poolrooms, a barber shop, a television repair shop. A rocket sales store
with huge showrooms of gleaming rockets. Family size. And at the end of the
block the Portola Theater.
The town thinned out. Farms, fields. Miles of green country. In the sky
above a few transport rockets lumbered, carrying farm supplies and equipment
back and forth. A small, unimportant town. Just right for Rethrick
Construction. The Plant would be lost here, away from the city, away from
the SP.
Jennings walked back. He entered a lunchroom, BOB'S PLACE. A young man
with glasses came over as he sat down at the counter, wiping his hands on
his white apron.
"Coffee," Jennings said.
"Coffee." The man brought the cup. There were only a few people in the
lunchroom. A couple of flies buzzed, against the window.
Outside in the street shoppers and farmers moved leisurely by.
"Say," Jennings said, stirring his coffee. "Where can a man get work
around here? Do you know?"
"What kind of work?" The young man came back, leaning against the
counter.
"Electrical wiring. I'm an electrician. Television, rockets, computers.
That sort of stuff."
"Why don't you try the big industrial areas? Detroit. Chicago. New
York."
Jennings shook his head. "Can't stand the big cities. I never liked
cities."
The young man laughed. "A lot of people here would be glad to work in
Detroit. You're an electrician?"
"Are there any plants around here? Any repair shops or plants?"
"None that I know of." The young man went off to wait on some men that
had come in. Jennings sipped his coffee. Had he made a mistake? Maybe he
should go back and forget about Stuartsville, Iowa. Maybe he had made the
wrong inference from the ticket stub. But the ticket meant something, unless
he was completely wrong about everything. It was a little late to decide
that, though.
The young man came back. "Is there any kind of work I can get here?"
Jennings said. "Just to tide me over."
"There's always farm work."
"How about the retail repair shops? Garages. TV."
"There's a TV repair shop down the street. Maybe you might get
something there. You could try. Farm work pays good. They can't get many
men, anymore. Most men in the military. You want to pitch hay?"
Jennings laughed. He paid for his coffee. "Not very much. Thanks."
"Once in a while some of the men go up the road and work. There's some
sort of Government station."
Jennings nodded. He pushed the screen door open, stepping outside onto
the hot sidewalk. He walked aimlessly for a time, deep in thought, turning
his nebulous plan over and over. It was a good plan; it would solve
everything, all his problems at once. But right now it hinged on one thing:
finding Rethrick Construction. And he had only one clue, if it really was a
clue. The ticket stub, folded and creased, in his pocket. And a faith that
he had known what he was doing.
A Government station. Jennings paused, looking around him. Across the
street was a taxi stand, a couple of cabbies sitting in their cabs, smoking
and reading the newspaper. It was worth a try, at least. There wasn't much
else to do. Rethrick would be something else, on the surface. If it posed as
a Government project no one would ask any questions. They were all too
accustomed to Government projects working without explanation, in secrecy.
He went over to the first cab. "Mister," he said, "can you tell me
something?"
The cabbie looked up. "What do you want?"
"They tell me there's work to be had, out at the Government station. Is
that right?"
The cabbie studied him. He nodded.
"What kind of work is it?"
"I don't know."
"Where do they do the hiring?"
"I don't know." The cabbie lifted his paper.
"Thanks." Jennings turned away.
"They don't do any hiring. Maybe once in a long while. They don't take
many on. You better go someplace else if you're looking for work."
"All right."
The other cabbie leaned out of his cab. "They use only a few day
laborers, buddy. That's all. And they're very choosy. They don't hardly let
anybody in. Some kind of war work."
Jennings pricked up his ears. "Secret?"
"They come into town and pick up a load of construction workers. Maybe
a truck full. That's all. They're real careful who they pick."
Jennings walked back toward the cabbie. "That right?"
"It's a big place. Steel wall. Charged. Guards. Work going on day and
night. But nobody gets in. Set up on top of a hill, out the old Henderson
Road. About two miles and a half." The cabbie poked at his shoulder. "You
can't get in unless you're identified. They identify their laborers, after
they pick them out. You know."
Jennings stared at him. The cabbie was tracing a line on his shoulder.
Suddenly Jennings understood. A flood of relief rushed over him.
"Sure," he said. "I understand what you mean. At least, I think so." He
reached into his pocket, bringing out the four trinkets. Carefully, he
unfolded the strip of green cloth, holding it up. "Like this?"
The cabbies stared at the cloth. "That's right," one of them said
slowly, staring at the cloth. "Where did you get it?"
Jennings laughed. "A friend." He put the cloth back in his pocket. "A
friend gave it to me."
He went off, toward the Intercity field. He had plenty to do, now that
the first step was over. Rethrick was here, all right. And apparently the
trinkets were going to see him through. One for every crisis. A pocketful of
miracles, from someone who knew the future!
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