Part 2

"Well, you can't argue with a woman," he complained peevishly. "Who ever heard of a woman doctor--a pretty woman doctor...?"

Dr. Lorraine did something to a lever, and the room darkened.

H.D. awoke refreshed and full of vigor, the conversation with Dr. Lorraine fresh and clear in his mind. He jumped out of bed, and stumbled, cursing, around in the dark until he finally figured out where the light would be.

He pushed a lever above the head of his bed, the first of several in a panel, and light filled the room, varying in strength with the position of the lever. He did not see the source.

The room was unremarkable in appearance, although he could not identify the smooth, creamy, _soft_ material of the walls. Of two doors the outer, to his cursing disgust, was locked. The other opened into a Rube Goldberg bathroom. After admiring the array of buttons, switches, cranes and slings, after a little cautious experimentation, H.D. saw that the design was intended to permit cripples the luxury of a real bath and toilet.

Wandering back into the bedroom, he idly fiddled with the other levers in the wall panel with no perceptible results until the last. Then the entire end wall vanished and he was looking at Chicago.

At where Chicago should have been, at any rate--he could hardly have said what he expected but what he saw was merely a jungle. From what seemed a considerable height he could make out little detail in the mass of growing things.

He could see no other tall buildings, but he was looking toward the lake and his view was limited. As he strained his eyes he could see a little of bright winding paths, and graceful little houses buried in greenery and blossom. No movement caught his eye.

These people must conduct their business elsewhere, he thought--underground, perhaps, leaving the surface for leisure and recreation. Garden City indeed! Life must be pleasant here--and it would soon be his! He fairly itched to make his mark on this Brave New World.

He turned from his contemplation when he heard the door open. There was that woman, smiling and inquiring how he'd slept. He'd soon straighten her out.

"Dr. Lorraine," he said grimly, "why was I locked in?"

The smile faded just a little. "Three days observation, remember?"

H.D. was patient. "Look," he said carefully, "I don't think you quite understand. I'm H.D. Haworth. From the little you've said I gather there's been no Bolshevik revolution, common sense be praised, so the Haworth Trust must be worth hundreds of millions. You still use money, don't you?"

She nodded slowly.

"And I have millions hidden away where no one can ever find them but myself--don't think I came an empty-handed beggar, even if something happened to the Trust funds. Millions, I tell you--gold and jewels, rare old books and art, everything of value.

"And besides that I'm the oldest sleeper--what's the matter with you people?" he demanded fretfully: "Don't you know what news is? Why am I met by one insignificant woman doctor?"

Dr. Lorraine did not seem put out by the upbraiding and this in itself was subtly exasperating. It was her attitude, her air, in which he sensed--sympathy, yes, and a sort of embarrassment. He did not understand it but it was absolutely offensive!

"Well," H.D. snarled, beside himself, "confound it, woman, say something!"

"Three days observation," said Dr. Lorraine, almost stupidly. Then she visibly readjusted the mantle of her professional cheerfulness and spoke briskly.

"It won't be so bad. I'll be making tests every day and that will pass the time and you can play the 'visor." She went over to his bedside table and pulled out the drawer holding the instrument.

"I hate radios," H.D. said sullenly. "I'd like to jam every one down Marconi's throat, first breaking the tubes. Confounded trashy programs, changing every five minutes!"

"Is that how they were? How awful for you! See, you just dial, like this, and one station has nothing but dance music, another nothing but Jimmurian dissonances. See? Anything you like.

"And if you first dial "0" you can then dial for any number or any entire program that's ever been recorded. Here's the index. Too bad we don't have one in English."

H.D. yielded a snicker. "Where's the screen?" he asked, slightly mollified.

"Oh. I did say 'visor,' didn't I? Well, you see, this is a modified visor. No visual, no talking programs, just music. It's too bad, in a way, but we had to have you here for some of the tests. This is a neuro-psychiatric ward, you see. Yes, soft walls and all. It can be stripped down for violents."

H.D. showed signs of becoming that way himself and the doctor smilingly stepped to the door and opened it.

"See you tomorrow."

"_Wait!_" H.D. roared. "What happens then? What--"

"Three days observation." She nodded, and the door was closing. He reached it in a bound but the lock clicked first.

* * * * *

Late in the afternoon of the third of those maddening days that loathsome woman--the part of her that wasn't phonograph must have been clam--brought him some clothes. And the word that she spoke as she quietly left was music--Goodby.

He vaguely remarked the clothes as he pulled them on--socks, thin-soled shoes, a loosely draped one-piece garment of a closely woven sky-blue material resembling silk but duller--a light cape of darker blue. Just as he was appraising the quite satisfactory effect in the wall mirror a sound turned him toward the door.

They stood a little awkwardly in the doorway, pulling rather solemn faces. The black-haired man, who would have been big by ordinary standards, was mopping his red face in a nervous gesture and the seven-foot giant who dwarfed him was stroking his platinum-blond beard.

H.D. stared at the giant gape-mouthed. _He looks exactly like God, if God were in the shape of a man_, he thought.

Teeth flashed in a smile through the silvery brush and God said, haltingly, "Hello, Grampaw."

H.D. started violently. The black-haired man came forward with a jovial, if forced, laugh and a deprecating wave of the hand.

"You _are_ his grandfather, you know, Mr. Haworth. Fourteen times removed, that is. He's the Administrator now. Don't you know me? Guess the bird looks different with all this plumage, eh?"

There was, at that, something familiar about this coarse, good-natured fellow, something....

"Jones!" It was the delighted cry of a homesick sailor sighting the old church steeple.

"Garibaldi Jones! It's good to see you, man! When did they dig you up?"

"About twenty years ago." Garry grinned.

For a moment H.D. thought he discerned in his grin a trace of that expression he had so come to hate in the last three days, that tinge of something like embarrassment. Nonsense!

He rushed on, "Now I'll find out about this new-fangled world and pretty soon we'll set 'er by the ears. Once I get my...."

The giant said something to Jones, who nodded uncomfortably. H.D. frowned.

"What's that? Why don't you speak English, Mr.--uh--Mr. Haworth? I guess you're a Haworth?" The giant smiled politely.

"He don't know any English, Mr. Haworth, except those words I taught him. Guess you might as well call him Junior--same name as yours. He says we better get going. Have to be in Washington by six. Your flyer's waiting."

_Your flyer!_ This was more like it. Well, after all, he was H.D. Haworth, and they named demigods after him! In the exuberance of the thought he forgot to ask why they had to go to Washington. He swirled his cape about him and strode out. The demigod stepped aside for him.

The corridor was a surprise. It was not merely long--it was shockingly long. It must have been _miles_ long. And it was broad. A truck could have easily passed and it was lined with doors and little signs in a wavy lettering. No one seemed to be about.

They hurried along, H.D. gawking to all sides, almost trotting as Junior set the pace. At the great double door of an elevator shaft Junior touched the signal button.

Big--everything around here was _big_! The elevator could have accommodated several pianos and the pretty red-head operating the lift had to look down at H.D. She winked and made a laughing remark.

"She says you're cute."

H.D. did not know whether to be pleased or offended and before he could decide the acceleration took his breath away. They went up, up, a ridiculous distance, and at last he stepped out into another corridor.

_Corridor!_ The floor must have been forty yards across and most of it was moving, a series of horizontal escalators with three speeds in each direction, adjacent strips moving at different speeds.

* * * * *

While H.D. stared, Junior and Garry Jones had stepped aboard the nearest strip and were moving away. Now Jones came trotting back, making little headway against the conveyor's motion. He had to chuckle.

_In my country, said the queen, you have to run like the devil to stay in the same place._

"Come on, Mr. Haworth," Garry called. H.D. waited for the next opening in the rail to oppose him, took hold and stepped on. When he had come up, Garry explained, "This is Chicago--this building--this is the whole city, the business part, that is. This is one of the transport levels."

"Hmm." The place didn't look right--too bare, too empty. "Where are the stores? Where are the signs? Where are the people?"

"Stores? Oh, this is just a garage. Working day's over. Just about everybody's gone home."

"Garage?"

"Sure, for flyers--remember? Here we are."

The door Junior unlocked let them into a space sufficiently garage-like in its bareness, but the thirty feet of gold-and-crystal grace it sheltered was a thing of beauty, enough to warm the cockles of any limousine-lover's heart. As H.D. gave himself up to the upholstery's caress he felt his old confidence return.

The wall rolled away as Junior made some unperceived signal. With the slightest of vibration the flyer wafted out into the shadowed evening. As the wingless craft emerged into space H.D.'s hands instinctively tightened their grip on the arms of his chair. Then he relaxed with a smile. He looked around with appreciation, ready to accept each new thrill with easy complacency.

When the mounting flyer finally cleared the shadow of that Everest of a building they must have been six thousand feet up. In the western distance the dipping sun shed its fire on a doll's garden of patched green, with here and there a spot of cheerful early autumn color. _Charming_, he thought patronizingly, _charming!_

"Let's go down closer and have a good look at those suburbs," he exclaimed on sudden impulse.

Garry shook his head. "Too late. We'd never make it to Washington by six." The flyer was gaining speed and altitude.

"What's all this about Washington? What happens there?"

Garry hesitated. "You have to take a trip, Mr. Haworth."

H.D. leaned forward, unable to hear the last words. With their mounting speed the whine of violated air was becoming a scream. Garry reached back over Junior's shoulder and hit a toggle at the right end of the instrument board. It was like shutting off a radio.

He repeated, "You have to take a trip, Mr. Haworth."

"Trip. By heaven, you're as mysterious as that woman. Why don't you speak up? Well, never mind that." His eyes narrowed. "To whom does this airship belong?"

Garry sighed. "To you, Mr. Haworth."

"Tell that oaf to turn around and go back."

Garry sighed again and shook his head. "He won't, Mr. Haworth." The flyer was arching through a dark swirling cumulus layer, still gaining speed.

H.D.'s jaw set hard. He gritted his words.

"I don't know just what this is," he said slowly, "but I know this. You won't get away with it. Nobody fools with me. I'll break you and that great goon of a great-great-grandson. Money still counts here--that woman said so."

"Yes."

"Yes. I suppose you know to whom the Haworth Trust reverts now?"

"To you, Mr. Haworth."

"Yes. And that means I'm one of the richest men in the world again."

"No, sir."

H.D.'s cold tone deepened. "What do you mean, no?"

"Well, sir, times have changed, you might say."

"Inflation!" H.D. exploded.

"No, sir, none to speak of. You can still get a loaf of bread for a quarter. It's just that the growth curve is pretty steep, and it gets steeper all the time. Atomic energy, you know, and no wars for a long time, and now no natural death.

"You can get twelve percent on your money in a savings bank. It's really an expanding economy. Why, Chicago alone is worth more in dollars and cents than all the nations of earth in our time."

H.D. reflected this. "Well, how much is the Trust worth?"

* * * * *

Garry exchanged a few words with Junior. "About thirty million, he says."

"_What!_"

"Well," Garry hastened, "I know it isn't much for twenty million to grow to after all this time, but there have been expenses! What we had to spend for protection in the old days, when the mobs wanted to dynamite the vault!

"The sums that were spent on research to revive you! And then the Administrator, Junior here, has to live up to the Haworth name and that's expensive. He draws over a million a year."

"Why, that thieving, white-whiskered pip-squeak, I'll sue him within an inch of his life! I'll--"

"Now, now, Mr. Haworth, you're still a wealthy man."

H.D. glared. "Wealthy. Yes. And famous. The oldest Sleeper. Can't understand why the newsmen haven't been after me. In my time--"

"You're not news, sir. Look, Mr. Haworth, I have some rather unpleasant things to tell you. I've been shirking it but I might as well tell you now."

H.D. shrugged off a faint twinge of apprehension and leaned back in his seat. He looked out. The flyer was rocketing through clear air, high above a sea of crimson cotton, no longer accelerating.

He relaxed and permitted himself a smile. He had life, health, and millions. The billions would come easily enough. Pah, what "unpleasant things" could mar this paradise?

"You did have some news value as the oldest and one of the deadest Sleepers--but you've been thoroughly Probed out this last year."

H.D. frowned impatiently. "What's this 'Probe' business? That woman mentioned it, and some 'Code'."

"The Farbenstein Probe," Garry said, looking thoughtfully out at the darkling horizon, "is, in simple terms, a hypno-bio-physical technique for reaching and interpreting buried memories. Your thoughts and experiences are on file and the newsworthy ones have been published."

H.D.'s mind refused to accept this horrible thought. He stared stupidly.

"_No!_ It can't be!" he gasped. "It's--it isn't possible! It isn't _decent_!"

"Oh, not _all_ your thoughts," he explained quickly. "Just--well, I'd better just tell you as well as I can about the Code." A very uneasy feeling mounted in H.D.'s breast as Garry continued.

"The Ascension Code made some basic changes in the conditions of life. What it really did was take most of the irresponsibility out of people's behavior. Because the freezatoria gave people hope that had no faith in Heaven--so the Code gave them fear, that didn't fear God. The Code put justice on a remorseless eye-for-an-eye basis."

H.D.'s blood ran slowly cold. He repressed the thought, denied it, rejected it, but in his heart he knew. His intuition had made the connection. Garry noted his heavy breathing, and felt a stir of pity. He continued, gazing out.

"It's simple enough, in practise. Every fifty years each person must submit to a Survey--and all Sleepers when they're revived. By association techniques they're made, under the Probe, to admit everything they've done that was wrong, either by their own conscience or by the written law.

"Then--well, you see--one outgrowth of the Probe is that _suffering_ has been classified, qualitatively and quantitatively. Oh, it's arbitrary on the edges, but not very, and where there's doubt there's charity, of course.

"After the Survey, if he's passed a certain allowable maximum in wrongdoing, a person must go to--the penal colony and experience himself all the suffering he has caused, qualitatively and quantitatively as closely as possible."

The question was only a whisper. "How long will I have to spend at this--this place--where did you say?"

"The penal colony? It's on the fourth planet. I guess we used to call it Mars." He hesitated. "In your case, I'm afraid--well, they say you hurt a lot of people."

"It's ridiculous!" H.D. cried desperately. "It's barbaric! My word, even in our time reasonable people knew that _revenge_ isn't civilized, even against _criminals_. Can't they _rehabilitate_ people?"

Garry grimaced, and spoke flatly, slowly.

"'There is no known deterrent from harmfully selfish action except fear of punishment. Nor can there be a healthy mind as long as there exists a debt to conscience.' That's a translation from a schoolbook."

H.D. sprawled in his chair like a poled ox. He recognized that he was beaten. His eyes stared vacantly, he mumbled over and over, "They can't, they can't." He did not notice the flyer's swooping deceleration.

* * * * *

Something was shining with a white light. They were hovering. H.D. looked up absently, little interest in his eyes. A great long cave-mouth yawned in the mountain that was Washington, bright in the gathering dusk.

"There's our signal." A green eye was blinking rapidly. Junior settled the flyer in a curbed rectangle and H.D. had a moment to note the rows of craft, the conveyors, the rows of brightly lettered doors in the background. Then the door of the flyer opened and a gray-uniformed man almost as big as Junior clambered in, carrying a little leather bag.

H.D. watched in silence as the Administrator and the stranger exchanged a few words and some sheaves of paper, to which each affixed a signature. Then the man in gray opened his bag and, with the tools he took out, began to do something to the flyer's instrument panel. He whistled as he worked, a jazzy dance tune, and the sound grotesquely accentuated the silence of the watching three.

Jones stirred. "Well, here's where we get off, I guess." He stepped down out of the flyer, Junior after him, but when H.D. mechanically followed, the Administrator's bulk blocked the door. He was smiling with polite embarrassment.

"Move, you oaf!" H.D. snapped.

"Sorry, Mr. Haworth," Garry said. "You're going on to ... the penal colony."

Red rage gripped H.D.; they were treating him like an animal, sending him off like a bull to the packing house. He gripped the door-frame with his hands, and in a quick motion set his foot against Junior's chest. The giant sprawled backwards, and there was a satisfying thump as his head struck the pavement.

An iron hand gripped H.D.'s shoulder. The uniformed man's face was completely indifferent, almost bored. He merely held H.D. until he relaxed and sank shaking into a seat. Junior was on his feet, rubbing his head, the oafish smile a little rueful now.

The man in gray resumed his work and his whistling. It was intolerable. Those two with their sympathetic silence, and this fellow with his cheerful, loathsome whistling. He had to say something.

"How's a little can like this able to get to another planet?"

"Oh, we're pretty good engineers these days," Garry said eagerly. "Tell you about it sometime. Well, the J-man's fixing your pilot signal now. It'll fly on automatic. It ought to be pretty interesting, really, your first space trip and all."

H.D. scarcely heard him. The "J-man" had put his tools back in their bag and was descending to the pavement. The door closed with a ringing sound and the J-man was doing something to it from the outside. Despairing, frustrated tears welled in H.D.'s eyes. His knuckles whitened.

A faint vibration stirred in the flyer and H.D. looked around in panic. Going already? He felt horribly afraid. He had an impulse to claw the walls. Garry caught his wild look and returned a glance of sympathy. His lips moved, but no sound came. H.D. stared. Garry's lips moved again, and he gestured. H.D. remembered then and hit the toggle.

"... easy, Mr. Haworth." Garry's voice was as clear now as though he spoke beside him.

The flyer lifted gently and eased around in a 180-degree turn. The last tints of evening glowed in the western sky, the earth was lost in darkness and the first insolent stars were mocking him.

Garry, on the other side now, called again.

"Take it as it comes, Mr. Haworth. It won't last forever, even if it seems like it. Son of a gun--said the wrong thing again, didn't I!"

H.D. screamed, "Appeal! Appeal the case!"

Garry sadly shook his head. "'There is no known deterrent from harmfully selfish action except fear of punishment. Nor can there be a healthy mind as long as there exists a debt to conscience.'"

The flyer was easing out into the night, toward that red star of evil.

"You say Mars isn't called Mars any more?" he called hoarsely, pressing desperately against the hard crystal.

"No," Garry called softly and the quiet words were still very clear. "Now they call it Hell."