“Do you see?” he asked with barely restrained rage. “We're swamped. All the available storage space used and still the stuff piles up. I swear to Krishna I don't know what's going to happen, we just don't have any more place to put it.” He pulled a silver whistle from his pocket and blew fiercely on it. It made no sound at all. Bill slid over a bit, looking at him suspiciously, and Basurero scowled in return.
“Don't look so damned frightened-I haven't stripped my gears. This is a Supersonic Robot Whistle, too high- pitched for the human ear, though the robots can hear it well enoughsee?” With a humming of wheels a rubbish robot-a rubbot-rolled up and with quick motions of its pick-up arms began loading the plastic rubbish into its container.
“That's a great idea, the whistle I mean,” Bill said. “Call a robot just like that whenever you want one. Do you think I could get one, now that I'm a G-man like you and all the rest?” “They're kind of special,” Basurero told him, pushing through the correct door into the canteen. “Hard to get, if you know what I mean.” “No I don't know what you mean. Do I get one or don't I?” Basurero ignored him, peering closely at the menu, then dialing a number.
The quick-frozen redi-meal slid out, and he pushed it into the radar heater.
“Well?” Bill said.
“If you must know,” Basurero said, a little embarrassed, “we get them out of breakfast-cereal boxes. They're really doggie whistles for the kiddies. I'll show you where the box dump is, and you can look for one for yourself.” “I'll do that, I want to call robots too.” They took their heated meals to one of the tables, and between forkfuls Basurero scowled at the plastic tray he was eating out of, then stabbed it spitefully. “See that,” he said. “We contribute to our own downfall. Wait until you see how these mount up now with the matter transmitter turned off.” “Have you tried dumping them in the ocean?” “Project Big Splash is working on that. I can't tell you much, since the whole thing is classified. You gotta realize that the oceans on this damned planet are covered over like everything else, and they're pretty grim by now, I tell you. We dumped into them as long as we could, until we raised the water level so high that waves came out of the inspection hatches at high tide.
We're still dumping, but at a much reduced rate.” “How could you possibly?” Bill gaped.
Basurero looked around carefully, then leaned across the table, laid his index finger beside his nose, winked, smiled, and said shhhh in a hushed whisper.
“Is it a secret?” Bill asked.
“You guessed it. Meteorology would be on us in a second if they found out.
What we do is evaporate and collect the sea water and dump the salt back into the ocean. Then we have secretly converted certain waste pipes to run the other way! As soon as we hear it is raining topside we pump our water up and let it spill out with the rain. We got Meteorology going half nuts. Every year since we started Project Big Splash the annual rainfall in the temperate zones has increased by three inches, and snowfall is so heavy at the poles that some of the top levels are collapsing under the weight. But Roll on the Refusel we keep dumping all the time! You won't say anything about this, classified you know.” “Not a word. It sure is a great idea.” Smiling pridefully, Basurero cleaned his tray and reached over and pushed it into a disposal slot in the wall; but when he did this fourteen other trays came cascading out over the table. “See!” He grated his teeth, depressed in an instant. “This is where the buck ends. We're the bottom level and everything dumped on every level up above ends up here, and we're being swamped with no place to store it and no way to get rid of it. I gotta run now. We'll have to put Emergency Plan Big Flea into action at once.” He rose, and Bill followed him out the door.
“Is Big Flea classified too?” “It won't be once it hits the fan. We've got a Health Department inspector bribed to find evidence of insect infestation in one of the dormitory blocks-one of the big ones, a mile high, a mile wide, a mile thick. Just think of that, 147,725,952,000 cubic feet of rubbish dump going to waste. They clean everyone out to fumigate the place and before they can get back in we fill it up with plastic trays.” “Don't they complain?” “Of course they complain, but what good does it do them? We just blame it on departmental error and tell them to send the complaint through channels, and channels on this planet really means something. You figure a tento twentyyear wait on most paper work. Here's your office.” He pointed to an open doorway.
“You settle down and study the records and see if you can come up with any ideas by the next shift.” He hurried away.
It was a small office, but Bill was proud of it. He closed the door and admired the files, the desk, the swivel chair, the lamp, all made from a variety of discarded bottles, cans, boxes, casters, coasters, and such. But there would be plenty of time to appreciate it; now he had to get to work: He hauled open the top drawer in the file cabinet and stared at the blackclothed, mat-bearded, pasty-faced corpse that was jammed in there. He slammed the drawer shut and retreated quickly.
“Here, here,” he told himself firmly. “You've seen enough bodies before, trooper, there's no need to get nervous over this one.” He walked back and hauled the file open again and the corpse opened beady, gummy eyes and stared at him intensely.
Chapter 6
“What are you doing in my file cabinet?” Bill asked, as the man climbed down, stretching cramped muscles. He was short, and his rusty, old-fashioned suit was badly wrinkled.
“I had to see you-privately. This is the best way, I know from experience.
You are dissatisfied, are you not?” “Who are you?” “Men call me Ecks.” “You're catching on, you're a bright one.” A smile flickered across his face, giving a quick glimpse of browned snags of teeth, then vanished as quickly as it had come. “You're the kind of man we need in the Party, a man with promise.” “What party?” “Don't ask too many questions, or you'll be in trouble. Discipline is strict, just prick your wrist so you can swear a Blood Oath.” “For what?” Bill watched closely, ready for any suspicious movements.
“You hate the Emperor who enslaved you in his fascist army, you're a freedom-loving, God-fearing freeman, ready to lay down his life to save his loved ones. You're ready to join the revolt, the glorious revolution that will free… “ “Out!” Bill shrieked, clutching the man by the slack of his clothes and rushing him toward the door. X slipped out of his grasp and rushed behind the desk.
“You're just a lackey of the criminals now, but free your mind from its chains. Read this book”-something fluttered to the floor-“and think. I shall return.” When Bill dived for him, X did something to the wall, and a panel swung open that he vanished through. It swung shut with a dick, and when Bill looked closely he could find no mark or seam in the apparently solid surface. With trembling fingers he picked up the book and read the title, Blood, a Layman's Guide to Armed Insurrection, then, whitefaced, hurled it from him. He tried to burn it, but the pages were noninflammable, nor could he tear them. His scissors blunted without cutting a sheet. In desperation he finally stuffed it behind the file cabinet and tried to forget that it was there.
After the calculated and sadistic slavery of the troopers, doing an honest day's work for an honest day's garbage was a great pleasure for Bill. He threw himself into his labors and was concentrating so hard that he never heard the door open and was startled when the man spoke.
“Is this the Department of Sanitation?” Bill looked up and saw the newcomer's ruddy face peering over the top of an immense pile of plastic trays that he clasped in his outstretched arms. Without looking back the man kicked the door shut and another hand with a gun in it appeared under the pile of trays. “One false move and you're dead,” he said.
Bill could count just as well as the next fellow and two hands plus one hand make three so he did not make a false move but a true move, that is he kicked upwards into the bottom of the mound of trays so they caught the gunman under the chin and knocked him backwards. The trays fell and before the last one had hit the floor Bill was sitting on the man's back, twisting his head with the deadly Venerian neck-crunch, which can snap the spine like a weathered stick.
“Uncle…” the man moaned. “Onkle, zio, tio, ujak…!” “I suppose all you Chinger spies speak a lot of languages,” Bill said, putting on the pressure.
“Me… friend… “ the man gurgled.
“You Chinger, got three arms.” The man writhed more, and one of his arms came off. Bill picked it up to take a close look, first kicking the gun into a far corner. “This is a phony arm,” Bill said.
“What else…?” the man said hoarsely, fingering his neck with two real arms. “Part of the disguise. Very
