Three or four times he thought he saw people, but he was only able to get close to one of them, and it said civilly, “We are not human, Man Forrester. We are merely a special-purpose service unit diverted to aid at the cryogenic facilities.” It had looked like a pretty young blonde in a bikini, perhaps a barmaid somewhere, Forrester thought; but was too dispirited to inquire further. Apart from those, there was no one in sight in Shoggo.
He walked aimlessly, shaking his head.
His long days of self-imposed exile had let most of the guilt evaporate from him. He no longer felt either fearful of discovery or humiliated; the Sirian had used him as a tool, true, but if it had not been him, it would have been someone else. Anyway, he was more concerned about this world. The year 2527 was a great disappointment to him. He could think of no other age when the response of the populace to a threat of death would have been such universal suicide. It was simply crazy. . . .
Of course, he reminded himself, death was not the same to these people as it had been to his contemporaries. Death was no longer necessarily permanent. It was like fleeing to a neutral country to sit out a war, and heaven knew there were lots of twentieth-century examples of that.
Nevertheless, in Charles Forrester’s opinion the world of 2527 A.D. was chicken.
Forrester filled his lungs and shouted, “You are all cowards! The world’s better off without you!” His voice echoed emptily among the tall, hard building faces.
“Man Forrester,” said the joymaker, “were you addressing me?”
“I was not. Shut up,” said Forrester. “No, cancel that. Get me a cab.” And, when it came, he took it back to the broad hovercraft way where he and Jerry Whitlow had hidden out as two of the Forgotten Men. But there were no more Forgotten Men in evidence, not wherever he looked, no matter how loudly he called out. “Take me to Adne Bensen’s home,” he commanded, and the cab flew him into the entrance port at the midtower level of the building they had shared, but there was no one visible there, either. Not in the streets, not in the halls, not even in the apartment, after Forrester had commanded the joymaker to let him in.
He ordered himself a meal and sat on the edge of a sort of couch in the children’s room, feeling put-upon and sad. When he had finished eating he said, “Joymaker, try getting Taiko for me again.”
“Yes, Man Forrester. . . . There is no new message, Man Forrester.”
“Don’t give me that! Say it’s priority, like you’re always doing to me.”
“You do not have the authority to classify a message priority, Man Forrester.”
“I do if I say I’m planning to kill him,” Forrester said cunningly. “You have to notify him of my intentions, right?”
“I do indeed, Man Forrester, but not until you have filed appropriate bonds and guaranties. Until you have done so, your notice cannot be effective. Do you wish to file, Man Forrester?”
“Well,” said Forrester, thinking about filling out forms and signing documents, “I guess not, no. Isn’t there any way I can get through to him?”
The joymaker said, “I have a taped message from him, which I can display on the view-wall if you wish, Man Forrester. It is not, however, directly addressed to you.”
“Display the son of a gun then,” ordered Forrester. “And make it snappy!”
“Yes, Man Forrester.”
The view-wall lighted up, obediently; but what appeared on it was not Taiko Hironibi. It was a tall, largely built woman with a commanding presence, who said, “Girl Goldilocks and Terror of Bears!”
The joymaker said apologetically, “There is a malfunction, Man Forrester. I am investigating.”
Forrester was startled. “What the devil!” he cried. The voice went on. “Bears! Think of bears. Great biting creatures, shaggy-haired, smell of animal sweat and rot. A bear can kill a man—crunch, crush his head; smash, crash his spine; zip, rip his heart.” At every word the woman’s image acted out crunching, smashing, ripping.
“Hey,” said Forrester, “I didn’t order any bedtime stories!”
The joymaker said, in the same tone of apology, “Man Forrester, the technical difficulty is being analyzed. I suggest you permit this tape to finish.”
And meanwhile the woman was orating. “A girl child, little as you. Littler. Little as you used to be when you were little. Call the girl . . . give her a name. . . . Let her be called, oh, Goldilocks. Golden hair; locks of gold. Sweet, small, defenseless girl.”
Forrester snarled, “Will you turn this damn thing off?”
“Man Forrester,” admitted the joymaker, “I can’t. Please be patient.”
“Imagine this girl doing a naughty thing!” cried the woman. “Imagine her going where she should not go, where her mother/father told her not to go. Imagine her rejecting their wise counsel!”
Forrester sank back on the couch and said glumly, “If you can’t turn it off, at least get me a drink while I’m waiting. Scotch and water.”
“Yes, Man Forrester.”
The view-wall was showing real bears now, large and ferocious grizzlies, while the woman chanted, “And Goldilocks goes to the bear lair—roaring, biting, slashing bears! But they are not home.
“They are not home, and she eats their food. She sits where they sit, lies where they lie, and sleeps.
“She sleeps, and the bears come home!”
Forrester’s drink appeared; he tasted it and glowered, for it was not Scotch. As best as he could tell from the flavor, it was a sort of salty applejack.
“The bears come home! The bears come home, and their muzzles foam; the bears come back ready to attack, the bears come in with their jaws agrin!
