Renaissance, page 3
'Well, that was easy,' said the driver. Only now he spoke in a man's baritone. 'Welcome to The Revolution, Doctor.'
The car was moving along rapidly through the traffic, which was light at this hour, consisting essentially - he had read - of unmarried women going to work. And, of course, there was a limited number of working wives.
The first shock of realizing that he was in the presence of a male disguised as a female subsided. And Grayson began the cautious task of gaining the data that would enable him to assess his own situation.
'How long have you been driving a car in this disguise?' he asked curiously.
'Long enough,' was the cheerful reply. : 'Never stopped for a traffic violation?'
'Well - once.' The big 'woman' shrugged. 'Had to shoot the traffic officer. Too bad, but—' The speaker broke off. 'Which reminds me - that will be your first assignment: getting yourself a pistol.'
Grayson scarcely heard. His thoughts had already moved forward to the realization that he was asking the wrong questions. And that, in fact, he had somehow been avoiding the crux of the matter.
He said now, boldly, 'What is Miss Haskett's role in this?'
The large, pasty face with its artificial cosmetic coloring -to give it a womanly look - grinned. 'You were at her place last night, right? We've been keeping an eye on you ever since we cracked your glasses with that high-frequency - well, never mind. Anyway, there you were.' Again the grin. 'You made it with her, too, didn't you? That's what I meant - welcome to The Revolution, Doctor. When a potential recruit goes after a mistress within forty-eight hours - and has the gumption to carry it through to touchdown - that's good enough for us. You're in, and there's no escape.'
A pause. Mostly a blankness. A striving to grasp the cruel implications.
It was beginning to be painfully obvious that the other's hearty, almost jovial way of speaking concealed a chilling determination, which Grayson found himself automatically resisting.
He drew a deep breath, for, after all, he had a certain inner power. He was a Ph.D., and a working scientist. He said, 'Let's not be too hasty about all these positive statements. If you want my goodwill - which I'm not withholding yet -1 suggest you try a little permissiveness, and reason, and an end to threats.'
Having spoken, he considered what he had said, and found it good. 'That's my statement,' he concluded.
The driver shook his middle-aged, womanly head. 'Sorry Doc, if you'll think about it, you'll see that we can't operate that way.'
'You're already talking better,' urged Grayson quickly.
The disguised man ignored his interruption: '—We can't operate that way because then we'd have people who would try to suck up to the Utts. So I just have to tell you. If we lose confidence in you, we kill you.' He added quickly, 'I don't have any feeling yet that we can't trust you. So don't be alarmed. But, Doc' - almost gently - 'we don't take chances. When in doubt' - he made a gesture across his neck, then finished -'kaput. You see how that has to be, don't you? You're a logical man.'
And still Grayson resisted. He was like a man who had accidentally walked into a thieves' hideaway, and as they very reasonably pointed out, they would have to kill him because they couldn't afford to have an outsider know about them. The logic within its frame was perfect. He just didn't wish to be a victim, or - in this instance - be involved.
His reverie ended abruptly as, beside him, the disguised man held out a card, and said, 'Anytime you want to get in touch with us, here's how.' When Grayson hesitated, the man reached over and shoved the card into his left coat pocket.
Moments after that, the car drew up at the curb. 'Well, there's the Haskett factory. Okay, Doctor - out!'
Grayson climbed out, then turned, and said protestingly, 'Look—1'
The automobile gave a lurch. The 'woman' leaned across the seat, pulled shut the door on Grayson's side, and, as the machine picked up speed, waved—
… In the course of the morning, the receptionist put seven calls through to Grayson. 'Dr Pudget on the phone,' she would say. Or, 'The factory superintendent's on the line.' Or, 'Can you speak to the buyer for Reid, Leigh, and UfHegay?—' And, of course, he always could. Because the woman knew very well who he talked to and who could be, or should be, referred elsewhere.
He handled each call by making an initial effort to calm himself, and each time spoke in his usual practical fashion.
He began to feel a lot better.
He was aware of a hardening of his resolve. The truth was, he had been shown a way out from under Utt control. And that way he would now never forget.
So he was in The Revolution.
By the time that firmness was in him, it was a quarter after eleven, and time to think of his appointment with Dr Burr
chapter six
Dr Burr turned out to be the sturdily built, red-faced man. Over the years, occasional images of such a person had flickered through Grayson's mind, but with no connecting identification.
As usual, because he thought of things like that, it astonished Grayson that one could almost completely forget someone's appearance. Then one day you saw him again. And that was who he saw.
Apparently, the entire body and head structure was replayed by the mind; and you could even tell how he had aged and changed… Since a decade had gone by, B,urr had moved on to the early forties, with thinning brown hair.
It was this forgotten but familiar person who said, 'We'll make the examination first, and then see what happened to your spectacles.'
As that stereotyped procedure began, Grayson remembered some thoughts he had had. He asked, 'What happens in the brain when a person is nearsighted?"
Dr Burr hesitated. 'Are you referring to the pre Utt nearsightedness of a percentage of the population? Or is.your«ques-tion in reference to the Utt chemical method?'
Grayson detected a note in the ophthalmologist's voices that warned him the distinction was meaningful. 'What's the difference?'
'The Utt chemical can neither be disgussed nor investigated.' said Dr Burr.
'Oh!' Grayson was silent for a moment. Then he said with greater firmness, 'No, naturally I'm referring only "to the pre-Utt nearsightedness, to which occasionally women are today subject. What is the cause of that?'
The eye specialist shrugged. 'Working too hard. Eye demands of modsrn fife.'
'Yes, but what happens inside, the eye?'
'Unbalanced pull of over-strained muscles. Fovea centralis weakened. Complicated.'
'You mean,' persisted Grayson, 'if a… uh, woman who was nearsighted rested her eyes every time they tired, she'd have good vision?'
The specialist hesitated. 'People are not aware when their vision goes. Don't see an eye doctor till it's too late.'
'Suppose this woman rested her eyes for two weeks steady. Would that help her vision?'
'How long has she been wearing glasses? '
Grayson picked a figure out of the air. Since the woman was fictional, he settled on a round number. 'Twenty-five years.'
'Hmmm, she'd better stick to them, then. The fact is, very little was ever discovered that would lead to a recovery of vision in the case of nearsightedness, and, of course, the subject has not been studied since the coming of the Utt.'
'Yes, yes, of course,' Grayson agreed hastily. He sat there then, briefly blank. Finally: 'I see,' he said. 'Thank you very much.'
He watched idly as Dr Burr examined the spectacles with the cracked lenses inside a magnification device. The eye specialist looked up suddenly and said, 'You realize this will have to be reported to the Utt.'
'Eh?' Grayson was surprised. 'I don't understand.'
'These lenses,' said the eye specialist, gravely, 'are made from an unbreakable polymer. There will probably be a hearing on how they got broken.'
Grayson heard himself protesting, feebly. 'B-but, they just, simply, broke. There was nothing unusual to it.'
'I'm sorry,' said Dr Burr. 'It's the one thing that's regulated, as you know.'
He handed Grayson back the spectacles, saying, 'Since you've done an effective repair job, you'd better wear these until your new ones are ready. I'll make it a special, and have them over to you by tomorrow.'
He was talking to a man who was trying to visualize having to confront an Utt. Twice, Dr Burr repeated the instructions. At last, automatically, Grayson took the spectacles and slipped them on.
'But—' he said, vaguely.
Dr Burr did not look directly at his client. 'You will undoubtedly be contacted by an Utt Commissioner after I make my report,' he said.
"Yes, yes,' said Grayson, blankly.
Outside.
Standing, still blank on the sidewalk in front of the building-Something forgotten poked up into his consciousness… Like an old man - which, he reflected wanly, was pretty close to the way he felt - he reached up with one slightly trembling hand, and drew out of his pocket the card that the man disguised as a woman had slipped into it.
He stared down at a phone number.
Under the number was printed: 'Call only in case of emergency.'
An infinitesimal dot of returning courage stirred inside Grayson. What brought it to life at all was the realization that in giving him this number, they had taken a brave chance on him.
He pictured somebody where that phone was located… having to wait there. At any instant, for all that person knew, the police would come.
With so much indomitable will in them, the least he could do was let the phone attendant know that something serious had happened.
In the silence of the closed booth, after he dialed, the phone rang twice. Then there was a switching click in the receiver. A pause. Another phone rang once. Then came a second switching click. Once more the phone rang. During the brief silence that followed, Grayson had time to be amazed. And interested.
To his scientifically expert ear, the two sounds spoke volumes. He instantly visualized a relay system… The first click had taken his call and diverted it away from the original phone to an automatic switchboard. The second switching click was to a radio broadcasting relay system.
Even as he had the awareness, a distant receiver lifted. 'Hullo!' said a man's familiar voice.
—The man who had been disguised as a woman; his voice.
Grayson hesitated. Small world… he was thinking.
What bothered him was that, if Woman-face wore all the hats, then it was also - small revolution.
He suppressed a strong impulse to hang up without identifying himself. Suppressed it because he badly needed advice. And it was a case of balancing his sudden awful doubt against his tremendous need.
—The Utt!
Moments later, voice shaking from the inner conflict, he explained what Dr Burr had said, about reporting him. The matter-of-fact voice at the other end said, 'Thanks for telling us this, Doc. What is Dr Burr's full name, and his address?'
Grayson gave both.
'Okay,' said the voice, cheerfully. 'We'll see what we can do. Goodbye.' There was a disconnecting click.
Grayson replaced his own receiver, not entirely happy with the other's carefree half-promise. Still - he had to admit - all problems in the world were not solvable. It was a little difficult to imagine what 'they' could do if Dr Burr had already contacted the Utt Commissioner's office.
chapter seven
He went home.
Once again, he was vaguely surprised to hear from the maid that his wife was out. But he was also relieved.
After a while, his mind reverted to his brief'discussion with the eye specialist about nearsightedness. It seemed to him that there had been an unspoken truth between Dr Burr and himself. Since the Utt had a chemical that unerringly created nearsightedness in every male as soon as possible after the onset of puberty, then they knew what nearsightedness was.
And, because they could cause it without fail, it was possible they could also un-cause it.
He went to his room, took off his glasses,, and looked around him with his foggy eyes. The blur of booKcases, and the wavering desk, and the misty trees beyond the window brought a memory of the way he had been before the Utt Before he was sixteen. Funny, he hadn't thought of that in, well, in decades.
It had been a bright universe, he recalled, of far horizons, hazed by wondrous blue mists, not by tired, water-gray fog. He swallowed hard, remembering himself as a boy, watching a car snaking up a mountain road to become a tiny dot in remoteness; lying on his back firing with a .22 rifle at a hawk wheeling to the airflow half a mile up, deliberately not aiming at it. Vision he had had, that could see the trailing smoke of a jet beyond a distant mountain and estimate its rate of approach.
Grayson put his glasses back on nostalgically. They were, of course, modified by the transparent tape he had used to repaid them. But there was still a mild rose-tinted effect.
To have gone through life wearing rose-colored glasses - he sighed… and realized he was somehow degraded.
About six o'clock, his wife came in and stood over him. She was fully back in her grim state.
'My eyes ache,' said Grayson, who had that story ready.
Dinner,' she said, 'is on the table.'
The meal was the usual blank.
Outwardly, then, it was a typical Grayson family evening. He presumed that Mila was somewhere watching television and sewing; he stayed in his room, sat at his desk, and stared at a book.
… Scared.
The fear had come upon him suddenly when he realized he didn't have the inner conviction necessary for a second visit to Miss Haskett.
After that realization, his deterioration was rapid. He sat there—
Thinking of his forthcoming visit to the Utt—
It was like contemplating insanity. How could such a thing happen to a perfectly normal, ordinary person who had never in his life harmed anybody?
Later, in bed, he tossed and turned, and slept fitfully, waking up shortly after dawn with aching eyes and a feeling of exhaustion.
chapter eight
There was a memo on Grayson's desk when he walked into his office that morning. It said:
Dr Aaron Burr's receptionist called, and says that your spectacles prescription will be turned over, with your permission, to Dr Cyrus Flendon, in view of Dr Burr's fatal accident during lunch hour yesterday. She says there will, unfortunately, be a delay in delivery.
The memo was signed Alison H. And that, and not the message, caught him first.
Grayson stared down at the name, and he felt himself change color… Alison. Somehow, Miss Haskett had been alert and had this message channeled through her office. And she was letting him know that he was privileged to call her by her first name.
He was still thinking about this when, for the first time, the meaning of the memo itself reached out to him.
Accident?… Fatal?
He was instantly thunderstruck. Dr Burr. Yesterday. Lunch hour… why, that must have been within minutes after he -Grayson - had walked out of the ophthalmologist's office.
And after he had called the emergency number—
They killed him.
The repercussions inside him like a ricochet came to a slowing and then to a stop. He sat with narrowed eyes bracing himself to the hard deed that had been done on his behalf.
A thought leaped.
Could it be - was it possible - there was now no record of his visit to Dr Burr?
He read the memo again, and was swiftly sobered. And saddened. The sadness was not even remotely because a death had occurred. It was the fact that the prescription at least was still in existence. But, of course, that's the way it would be. He had to admit that. Such things were on some active file, and Dr Burr's secretary would efficiently wind up her employer's professional affairs down to the last diopter of correction, including no doubt checking with the office of the Utt Administrator of this area to make sure of Dr Peter Grayson's appointment with that being.
… Or would she?
As he bent over his desk rereading the message once more, Grayson's hope soared. The words about his giving his permission kept shaking him; for they seemed to imply that nothing had yet been done. Hard to believe that… and, of course, he would have to have glasses from someone, but—
During the next hour, as he read his mail, he was aware of an occasional excitement. Each time it happened, he pushed it away quickly. But by noon there was a decision in his mind.
At most things he was very efficient, and quite rational. Normally, he knew what to do about a problem, and did it .logically as a matter of course.
There seemed to be no question about what he ought to do about what had happened. All morning his problem was nerving himself to do it.
When he made up his mind, it was because it couldn't hurt. It couldn't make things worse. That was the logic.
Firmly, he called Miss Haskett and said in a voice that trembled only slightly, 'I'm going out, and I may not be back this afternoon.'
He added impulsively, 'But I want to thank you for everything.'
There was silence from Miss Haskett, and Grayson took the opportunity to hastily break the connection.
He left by his private exit.
He took the bus to the vicinity of Dr Burr's office and went up by the elevator. He had only a vague recollection of what the ophthalmologist's receptionist looked like, but he assumed that the woman who was busy behind the desk at the door was the one who had been there the day before.
Grayson had his speech prepared. He gave his name and said, 'I was greatly shocked at the unfortunate accident, but I thought I ought to come up and make sure that a certain matter that Dr Burr and I discussed about my prescription was included in the file which you have suggested should be given to Dr Flendon.'
The woman riffled through her card file. 'Oh, here you are.' She glanced at it, and Grayson involuntarily slowed his breathing as her gaze darted up and down and sideways over what was written there. Still looking at it, she said, 'Perhaps you could tell me what it is you think should be here—'
