crying. Tears, one after the other, were streaming down his red cheeks.
“Turn me over on my back,” Moosy asked Snorg. “The skin on my stomach burns. I must have bed sores.”
“On your stomach, you’re safer from the Dagses,” he said.
“When they want it, it’s no problem for them to turn me over.”
Aspe’s body disappeared while everyone slept, so no one knew how it was done.
Seeing Piecky sitting haggard at the keyboard, Snorg decided to tell him what Moosy had said. He put Piecky in a more comfortable position, sat beside him, and told him.
“Aspe’s death doesn’t contradict what I’ve concluded,” Piecky answered. “The laws that govern us operate statistically. It’s simple: first they tested us thoroughly and selected those who were viable, or possibly the others died… Then they discarded those who couldn’t learn, the complete cretins. The rest they taught intensively, using various means…”
Snorg watched the capering Dagses, then looked at Piecky, who returned the look with a smile . “Exactly,” Piecky went on. “Aspe died because the tests they ran weren’t perfect. Unless continued survival is itself a test.”
“What comes next?” asked Snorg.
Piecky’s shrug was with his whole body.
“Nothing good, I’m sure… In any case, nothing good for me.” He hesitated. “You see, Snorg, I was able to penetrate the information system that serves us. I saw other rooms, many of them. In each one, the people are our age, or younger. The very young ones sit in front of viewscreens and fill themselves with information. The ones our age do what we are doing now: living, observing, conversing… I haven’t yet found a room with people who are older than us… There’s a kind of information barrier. The system doesn’t answer questions about that… But it will end soon, this. I feel it, Snorg.”
7
A strong light hit Snorg in the eyes. For a while he couldn’t focus. Then he became aware that he was no longer in the Room. He was lying on something hard, in a place that seemed vast. He felt terribly alone, because none of his companions was with him. At the other end of the place sat an unknown man. He was very old, but Snorg realized that the man was simply older than those Snorg had been living with. The man, seeing that Snorg was awake, approached him and extended a hand.
“My name is Bablyoyannis Knoboblou,” he said.
Slowly, with an effort of will, Snorg rose from his bedding.
“Congratulations, Snorg. On this day you become a person. You were the best…”
Snorg reached and shook the man’s hand, curious to see what the hand felt like.
“I have here the report of Central”—the man took a few sheets of paper from the desk—“and the decision of the Committee, which is made up of persons… You will receive an identity card and can choose a name.”
Snorg didn’t understand. The man gave the impression of a kindly clerk who was performing a pleasant yet routine duty.
“Your results,” Bablyoyannis continued, running an eye over the papers he held. “A 132. Not bad. On my test, I scored 154,” he said with a smile of pride. “That Piecky one got dangerously close to you, with 126 points, but his lack of limbs, genitals… It’s hard to make up for that with intelligence alone… Better that someone like you was chosen and not one of those stumps.”
Snorg thought, “I’d like to crack your head.” He said, “Piecky is my friend,” and felt the old numbness in his jaw.
“It’s better not to have friends until you become a person,” observed Bablyoyannis. “Do you want to know how the others did? Moosy—84, Tib—72, Dulf—30… The rest, close to zero. The Dagses scored 18 each, and that ox, Tavegner, 12.”
Snorg heard the scorn in Bablyoyannis’s voice and felt a growing hatred for the man.
“What happens to me now?” he asked. The numbness in his face wouldn’t go away.
“As a person, you have a choice. You will enter the normal life of the society. A short period of training… and then you can either continue studying or take a job. From today, you receive an account with the sum of 400 money, as does everyone who becomes a person. Personally I would advise you not to have cosmetic surgery until you obtain a steady source of income. Ears are not really that important…” He gave Snorg a confidential look. “In time, you’ll be able to save up. There’s always a large selection of parts.”
Snorg felt cold sweat trickling down his back: he could see Tib before him.
“What happens to the others?” he finally managed to ask.
“Ah. Yes… You have the right to know.” Bablyoyannis was trying to be patient. “There are always many more individuals born than individuals who attain personhood. We harvest them for material. Among them, you can find a perfectly good pair of ears, or eyes, or a liver… Though some don’t even possess that. A type like Tavegner is probably good only for tissue cultures…”
“That’s inhuman,” Snorg couldn’t help saying, through clenched teeth.
“Inhuman?! No. The war, that was inhuman. Today a hundred percent of the population is born with physical defects, and three-quarters with mental defects. Reproduction, as a rule, is possible only by test tube. Save your indignation for our ancestors.”
Apparently Snorg didn’t seem convinced, because Bablyoyannis went on: “The birth rate has been maximized, to increase the probability of obtaining normal individuals.” He looked hard at Snorg. “As for the others… They’re the cheapest way for us to produce the organs we need. Because even the chosen aren’t perfect, are they, Snorg?… I’ve been working in this department for seven years now,” Bablyoyannis said, “and I can assure you that this path is the only one that’s right.”
“You’re not perfect either, Bablyoyannis. You drag your left leg, and your face is partially paralyzed,” said Snorg.
“I know. It shows.” Bablyoyannis was prepared for that remark. “But I work hard, and I’ve been saving almost all my money… for an operation.”
8
Tibsnorg Pieckymoosy began work in the Central Archive of Biological Materials. At the same time, he continued his education. The salary he made was good, but after a pro rata deduction to pay for the care he had received until now, not much remained. Expenditure for food and the rent for a dark little room consumed the rest of his money, so that his paycheck was only symbolic. The food, synthetic, was eaten in a cafeteria. It was an improvement over the IV. In the cafeteria he kept seeing the same people, which was boring, but by his calculations he couldn’t afford a better eating place, one where he would be able to come at different hours. He ex. He exchanged few words with the people he met in the cafeteria. They were all older than he. Some came in wheelchairs, but most could walk. He looked at them carefully: not one was completely normal. Each had deformities.
Tibsnorg was lucky: had he scored lower than 120 on his test, he wouldn’t have been allowed to continue his education. But he also kept working, because he feared the memories that came with free time. He would pay for all his operations himself, but he didn’t forget who had first helped him stand on his legs and conquer his nerveless body. Also, as a person, he had the right to know the truth, to know—despite the pictures on the viewscreen showing pretty landscapes, people formed correctly, and animals that had once lived-what the world really looked like now. Every five days, after work, he was allowed to go up to the surface and from an observation tower view his surroundings.
It was a grayish brown waste. Massive gray trucks continually moved across it, carrying loads from different mines. The trucks, he knew, were operated by people who could not have children, because the radiation
