staggering, more than ten times what it had cost to build New New. But money was only a bookkeeping convenience in New New’s closed economy. The main counterargument was that the same sort of effort applied at home could rebuild the Worlds and do it right—not only a choice of utopias, dozens of different social and physical settings, but a guarantee of a safe future. The new Worlds, built without groundhog money or interference, could be built with unbreakable defenses against aggression from Earth.
This was the nagging worry partly motivating both the starship project and plans for reconstruction. Earth was a shambles now, but its industrial establishment was still there, dormant, orders of magnitude larger than New New’s. If the plague ran its course, or if a cure were found, they might rebuild within a generation or so—and then what would become of the Worlds? Groundhogs were a little crazy under the best of circumstances. What would happen if they were crazy for revenge?
The Coordinators told O’Hara’s group something that wasn’t yet generally known: New New was having its own epidemic, one of suicide. Suicides were the leading cause of death in all adult age groups, and there were enough of them almost to counterbalance the Devonite population increase.
There were other indications of an alarming sag in New New’s morale. Productivity lower than ever before; absenteeism at a record high. Drug addiction and alcoholism were growing, in spite of the difficulties involved in feeding the habits.
During her conversation with John, Daniel had quietly fallen asleep, slumped in his chair. Did one blowout a week make him an alcoholic? He was putting in twelve-andfourteen-hour days at the lab, with Deucalion less than a year away. He was the only specialist in oil shale chemistry in New New—the only one anywhere—and was group leader for the entire applied chemistry section, always on call. Maybe he needed getting away. But she worried about him.
“Guess I’d better be taking the hero home,” she said. “Okay if I sleep with him tonight?”
“Somebody’s got to look out for him.” John peered into the gin bottle and shook it. “Better take this along. Breakfast of champions.”
“Champions?”
“Used to mean something.”
2
While she was getting ready for work the next morning, O’Hara’s cube beeped. She pulled a brush through her hair a couple of times and answered it.
It was the newscaster, Jules Hammond. “Marianne O’Hara?”
She just stared at his image and nodded. She had talked with him two years before, after the Zaire raid, but had never expected to see him again, outside of the nightly broadcast.
“Can you come down to the studio, Bellcom Studio One, this morning?”
“Wh—whatever for? Something about Zaire?”
He leaned forward, peering into his own cube. “That’s right, you were on that.” He shook his head. “Interesting. But this is something else, what we call a reaction story. Can you come down?”
“Sure…I’ll, uh, call in late.” Hammond nodded and rang off. She called the office and left a message for her assistant, asking him to cover a meeting for her if shedidn’t get away in time. Reaction story? She almost woke up Daniel, who was snoring open-mouthed, but decided not to complicate his hangover.
At the studio, an effeminate young man greeted her like an old friend, took her by the arm, and steered her into a side room. He sat her in one of two overstuffed swivel chairs facing a bank of six cubes and some complicated electronic equipment.
“Now, dear, we do want you to look pretty.” He unfolded a case and took out two combs; whistled through his teeth while he worked on her hair. He stood back and surveyed his work critically, head cocked, then applied a little powder to her face and neck. “We don’t want to shine.” Finger under her chin. “Tilt up just a wee… that’s it. Hold it. Sammy, you can calibrate now.”
She felt a warm laser
This was the nagging worry partly motivating both the starship project and plans for reconstruction. Earth was a shambles now, but its industrial establishment was still there, dormant, orders of magnitude larger than New New’s. If the plague ran its course, or if a cure were found, they might rebuild within a generation or so—and then what would become of the Worlds? Groundhogs were a little crazy under the best of circumstances. What would happen if they were crazy for revenge?
The Coordinators told O’Hara’s group something that wasn’t yet generally known: New New was having its own epidemic, one of suicide. Suicides were the leading cause of death in all adult age groups, and there were enough of them almost to counterbalance the Devonite population increase.
There were other indications of an alarming sag in New New’s morale. Productivity lower than ever before; absenteeism at a record high. Drug addiction and alcoholism were growing, in spite of the difficulties involved in feeding the habits.
During her conversation with John, Daniel had quietly fallen asleep, slumped in his chair. Did one blowout a week make him an alcoholic? He was putting in twelve-andfourteen-hour days at the lab, with Deucalion less than a year away. He was the only specialist in oil shale chemistry in New New—the only one anywhere—and was group leader for the entire applied chemistry section, always on call. Maybe he needed getting away. But she worried about him.
“Guess I’d better be taking the hero home,” she said. “Okay if I sleep with him tonight?”
“Somebody’s got to look out for him.” John peered into the gin bottle and shook it. “Better take this along. Breakfast of champions.”
“Champions?”
“Used to mean something.”
2
While she was getting ready for work the next morning, O’Hara’s cube beeped. She pulled a brush through her hair a couple of times and answered it.
It was the newscaster, Jules Hammond. “Marianne O’Hara?”
She just stared at his image and nodded. She had talked with him two years before, after the Zaire raid, but had never expected to see him again, outside of the nightly broadcast.
“Can you come down to the studio, Bellcom Studio One, this morning?”
“Wh—whatever for? Something about Zaire?”
He leaned forward, peering into his own cube. “That’s right, you were on that.” He shook his head. “Interesting. But this is something else, what we call a reaction story. Can you come down?”
“Sure…I’ll, uh, call in late.” Hammond nodded and rang off. She called the office and left a message for her assistant, asking him to cover a meeting for her if shedidn’t get away in time. Reaction story? She almost woke up Daniel, who was snoring open-mouthed, but decided not to complicate his hangover.
At the studio, an effeminate young man greeted her like an old friend, took her by the arm, and steered her into a side room. He sat her in one of two overstuffed swivel chairs facing a bank of six cubes and some complicated electronic equipment.
“Now, dear, we do want you to look pretty.” He unfolded a case and took out two combs; whistled through his teeth while he worked on her hair. He stood back and surveyed his work critically, head cocked, then applied a little powder to her face and neck. “We don’t want to shine.” Finger under her chin. “Tilt up just a wee… that’s it. Hold it. Sammy, you can calibrate now.”
She felt a warm laser
Similar Books
