“I cannot evaluate the magnitude of the offenses, Man Forrester, but I can list certain acts that would appear to be of greater significance than others. Item, you refused her offer of a reciprocal name.”
“That was bad?”
“It is offensive by social convention, Man Forrester, yes.” The glass of beer appeared by Forrester’s couch; he tasted it and made a face.
“No, not that,” he said. “What was that other thing, the beer with some kind of raspberry sauce?”
“Berlinerweisse, Man Forrester?”
“Yeah, get me one of those. Go on with the list.”
“Item, your actions when Man Heinzlichen Jura de Syrtis Major filed intent to kill you were considered contemptible in certain lights.”
“Didn’t she understand that I just wasn’t used to the way things go now?”
“Yes, Man Forrester, she did. Nevertheless, she considered your behavior contemptible. Item, you allowed yourself to become improverished. Item, you criticized her for a relationship with other males.”
The large goblet of pale beer appeared along with a little flask of dark red syrup; Forrester decanted the syrup into the beer and sipped it. It too tasted terrible, but he had run out of things to ask for and he drank it. “It was only that I loved her,” he said irritably.
“There are ineluctable aspects to the syndrome ‘love,’ which we cannot distinguish, Man Forrester.”
“Hell, I don’t expect you to. You’re a machine. But I thought Adne was a woman.”
“I can only surmise from the evidence of her responses that she did not comprehend or accept your behavior either, Man Forrester.”
“I have to admit you’ve got a point there,” sighed Forrester, putting down the goblet and getting up to roam around. “Well, never mind.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then waved a hand; a mirror appeared, and he studied his face in it. He looked like a bum. Hair unkempt, beard beginning to grow again. “Oh, hell,” he said.
The joymaker made no answer.
What Forrester really wanted to know—whether anyone had come to suspect him of being the one who had let the Sirian escape—he dared not ask. The questions he did ask, on the other hand, turned out to have answers as confusing as the questions were. Even simple questions. He had asked after his friend among the Forgotten Men, Jerry Whitlow, for example. He had not been surprised to find out that Whitlow was dead—he had seen that happen; or to learn that his revival was problematical; but he still did not know what the joymaker meant by saying that Whitlow was “returned to reserve.” It seemed to mean that Whitlow’s body had been used as raw material, perhaps in one of the organic lakes like the “Sea of Soup,” from which the world’s food supplies came; but Forrester was too repelled by that notion to follow it any further, and even so he could not understand why Whitlow’s revival would then be “problematical.”
“How many messages today, joymaker?” he asked idly.
“There are no messages for you today, Man Forrester.”
Forrester turned to look at the thing. That was a welcome surprise—any change was welcome—but it was worrisome, too. Had everyone forgotten him?
“No messages?”
“None that you have not already refused, Man Forrester.”
“Doesn’t anyone want to talk to me?”
“As far as indicated by the message log, Man Forrester, only Man Hironibi wishes to talk to you. He left special instructions in regard to forwarding of communications. But that was six days ago.”
Forrester was startled. “How the devil long have I been here?”
“Nineteen days, Man Forrester.”
He took a deep breath.
Nineteen days! How little his so-called friends cared for him! he told himself with self-pity. If they really liked him they would have broken the door down, if necessary.
But it was not all bad. Nineteen days? But surely, if he were going to be arrested for helping the Sirian escape, it would not have taken this long. Was it safe to assume the heat was off? Did he dare go back into the world of men?
He made up his mind rapidly and, before he could change it, acted at once. “Joymaker! Get me cleaned up. Shave, bath, new clothes. I’m going outside!”
His resolve lasted him through the cleaning-up process and into the condominium hall, but then it began to dissipate.
No one was in the hall; there were no sounds. But to Forrester it seemed like a jungle trail with unknown dangers on every side. He ordered an elevator cab to take him to slideway level, and when the door opened he entered it cautiously, as though an enemy might be lurking inside.
But it too was empty. And so—he found a moment later—was the wide hoverway. There was simply nothing there.
Forrester stared around, unable to believe what he saw. No pedestrians—well, that was understandable. There were seldom very many, and he had no idea what time of day it was. No hovercraft? That was harder to accept. Even if for a moment none were in sight, he should be able to hear the hissing roar of their passage somewhere in the city. But to see no aircraft, no sign of life at all—that was flatly unbelievable.
Where was everybody?
