Biting the Sun Page 4

  A robot arrived in front of me.

  “Request?”

  “Age and status change,” I said.

  There was a sort of hush, and I could feel eyes peering at me and tiny minds thinking: “Whoopee! A freak!”

  “Registered,” snapped the robot, then couldn’t resist adding: “One-A, First-Class Unusual. Do you have medical grounds for this?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any grounds at all?”

  “I think so,” I said. “You probably wouldn’t.”

  And I glared around at those peering eyes and suddenly noticed the pet was glaring at them too, snarl-hissing nastily. I stroked its pale head and just managed to get my fingers out of its reach in time.

  The robot had gone away, but very quickly a messenger flew up to me and signaled me to follow. Everyone else grumbled. I’d jumped to first place, due entirely to originality. Probably somebody felt like a good laugh before getting on to the usual boring routine.

  I went up the moving spiral after the messenger and was ushered through glassy corridors to a round compact room, with a moving painting on the ceiling and a non-wet water carpet. A quasi-robot official sat in a floating crystallize chair, anchored more or less to one spot by a golden chain. I sat on the other crystallize chair, also anchored but rather lower than his, and, to my surprise and astonished discomfort, the pet gave a splashing leap and landed firmly on my lap. It sat bolt upright and looked at the Q-R. We both looked.

  “Now,” said the quasi-robot, gently flicking his mustache at me, “what was your request again?”

  “Age and status change,” I said, undaunted. Well, I pretended I was.

  “Hmm,” said the quasi-robot. He stared serenely at the spot just above my eyes. My bee fell on my head, the pet jumped and aimed at it, the chair dipped, and we all fell into the water carpet, creating a most ghastly tidal wave.

  “Oh farath—onk!” I started swearing and hastily toned it down, just in case. You never know with Q-Rs.

  The chair followed me and I got back on. The pet landed on me again, unfortunately.

  “Yes,” said the Q-R, “I see.”

  We floated gracefully around for about five million vreks, and then he added: “You’re Jang, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And that’s the whole trouble,” I told him.

  “Oh come,” chortled the Q-R, just like a maker really, “the prime of life. Total awareness of the eighty senses, the peak of imaginative resource—”

  I really detest people quoting that nonsense at me, but I sat very still and listened politely, beaming as though I thought he was the most absolutely groshing thing I’d ever floated around a room with. Eventually he shut up. I said:

  “You’re quite right, of course, but I honestly think I’ve speeded up in my development somewhere, and I need to go on to the next stage, an Older Person.”

  “And how long, my dear,” and he smiled, “have you been one of the Jang?”

  “Ages,” I said.

  “Hmm.”

  We floated around again. I looked up at the ceiling picture, and there were these beautiful bodies, with leaves and flowers growing out of them, doing a sort of dimensional dance, so that bits kept disappearing and reappearing somewhere else.

  “I’ve just looked you up in the files,” the Q-R told me abruptly. They do it with the telepathy units in their elbows, so Hatta says, but it gives you a fright all the same, to be perfectly frank. The usual mind-blower is: “I’ve just looked you up in the files, and your new body has not been registered as yet. Thus, you are temporarily dead.” I recollect that happened to Hergal once, when I was with him in the Adventure Palace. We both felt pretty funny about it. I think that’s why he always stays in Limbo for two or three units now, just in case. Anyway the Q-R went on:

  “According to your history records, you have only been Jang for a quarter rorl. The usual period is at least half a rorl, my dear young lady. Except, of course, in very exceptional cases.”

  “I’m an exceptional case,” I cried.

  “Oh, I don’t really think so, my dear,” smarmed the Q-R.

  He started to explain, but I didn’t understand, and I don’t honestly think he did either. So I cut in:

  “Can’t you test me? Isn’t there some sort of guide to find out special cases?”

  “Well, er,” said the Q-R. He went off into another trance, flicking through memory banks and whatnot. “It is rather an involved business. Mental and physical examinations and so on.”

  “Right,” I said.

  I’d actually startled him. Derisann.

  “What?”

  “I’m ready,” I said. “When do we start?”

  He blinked at me a while.

  “Er. Would you wait one moment?” he said, and lowered his chair to the floor. He went across the water carpet and left me there. I mean, they never do that. It’s all part of the superiority thing that they stay in their chairs, and you’re the one who has to bob in and out. I’d really confused him. My ears felt hot with excitement and a kind of panic. Was I really ready to go on to the next stage? Was it the answer? Suddenly I felt like bolting out of the door, but I stopped myself. Being Jang was what was getting me down. It must be. Therefore, logically, being non-Jang would help to make me feel better. The door went up and another messenger signaled me to follow.

  I went after it, trembling as if I were in the Dimension Palace.

  3

  We went through a subway under Gold Waterway, a private subway belonging to the Committee Hall, riding in a little sledge bobbing about a foot off the ground on drifts of pretty pink steam. The gold water-light shone through the transparent roof making everything look rather cheerful, except me, I’ll bet. I took a serenity pill, and felt gently euphoric and entirely capable of dealing with anything.

  The sledge went under archways and ended up in a big hall, full of flying floors. The messenger got me on one, the bee fell on, and the pet ripped and clawed its way after us. Up we all went and arrived in this big, crystallize and steel room, where the bee suddenly found itself magnetized on a rack full of other bees, and the pet was whisked away by robots, grumbling about unhygienic fur and so on.

  It reminded me of parts of Limbo, and so did the quasi-robot medicine man in pale attire who waved me ever so graciously to a big soft seat, and sat down opposite—rather higher than me, naturally—hands together, and recording units no doubt whirring away inside.

  Then we went through it again. Obvious, I suppose. I really should hang on another quarter rorl, and come back then. Did I know (Interesting Incidental Fact) that quite often people were still predominantly Jang after half a rorl, and sometimes went on for a whole one? Wasn’t it conversely possible then, I said, for somebody to be out of the Jang stage after a quarter rorl? Well, it had happened, very occasionally, he admitted (Suave Concession of Point) but their behavior in these cases indicated this and mine, apparently, did not. Anyway, I told him, I’m here now, so you might as well get on with testing me. I suppose I’ll have to pay whatever happens. He looked slightly embarrassed, but rode it well. Of course he could, he said, if it would set my mind at rest. (Bland Diplomacy in Dealing with Jang Female Barbarian.)

  “Some simple little questions first,” he comforted me, and referred to a reading screen which he had turned on in the desk pillar in front of him. “Firstly, do you ever steal?”

  Well, all right, I jumped. No good lying either. Anyway, for all I knew, it might be one of the first signs of true anti-Jang.

  “Occasionally,” I said.

  “And what do you steal?”

  I had a sudden queasy feeling they were after me for Evasion, so I didn’t say a word.

  “Let me assure you,” he said then, “that anything which is said during these tests will be kept strictly
confidential. The only use to which we will put the information is in finding what is best for your future.”

  Well, robots don’t lie, so I answered:

  “Different things. It doesn’t really matter what, terribly. It’s when I’m low, usually, or getting droad,”

  He nodded, and I thought he looked pleased, which had to be bad, but it was too late now.

  “Now, about your sex-life—er, ‘having love.’ You’re predominantly female, but male once in a while, I see. You’ve devised a very sensible balance, I should think.”

  Congratulations, me. He was trying to knock my poor little guard down already, was he?

  “That’s right,” I said, “but I’ve been put on a sixty unit body restriction, for overdoing my changes.”

  I meant to make him disapproving, but again there was that little smile. Oh…onk!

  “And about how often do you have love?”

  “Oh, pretty often, really.”

  “Could you be a little more precise?”

  “It averages about once every six units. Less lately, though.”

  I’d scored. Non-Jang not to have love practically all the time, and it was true I’d lost interest….

  “When was the last time you married?”

  “Two units ago.”

  “I see.” Again he was pleased.

  “But it didn’t work out—” I hastily added, but he glossed over that.

  “Do you have a favorite meal or drink?”

  I said no. Food didn’t do that much for me. He asked if I ate now, what I’d like, so I said nut steak, which was the very first thing that came into my head. I couldn’t tell his reactions much after that. He was getting a bit more careful.

  It was clothes next.

  I’d deliberately come out in the least Jang thing I could get hold of, but it’s difficult somehow to get the really soolka stuff. This was transparent at the top, but pretty thickly jeweled and embroidered, and the sleeves and skirt were deep gold and almost opaque. No ornaments either, and my hair plain instead of coiled through with flowers and pearls and metal things, with gold bells, probably, on the end of each strand.

  “I like deep colors,” I said truthfully, “not just glassy metal-silk with a lot of skin showing.”

  “Yes, I understand. And what do you wear? I see the top of your dress reveals all it should, and most attractive it is too.”

  Oh, v….n you!

  “It’s not what I prefer—” I began.

  “Then why are you wearing it, my dear?”

  He just went on talking as I frantically tried to explain how Jade Tower and Silver Mountain, and all the other clothes and jewelery centers, drag you off to the Jang counters and stone you with Upper-Ear music, and you just can’t seem to get anything in the older range, no matter how you yell and threaten.

  “Activities,” I heard him purr, when I eventually stopped trying to make him hear me. “Do you go to the Dimension Palace?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “The Adventure Palace?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Dream Rooms?”

  “Yes.” Anti-Jang? Apparently not.

  “Hmm. Do you always program similiar dreams?”

  Ah ha, thought I, now you’re in for it, ooma. My dreams are non-non-non what all the flashes tell us Jang dreams should be.

  “More or less similiar,” I started, “and—”

  “Good,” he said. Just: “Good.”

  “Don’t you want to hear what I dream?”

  “I don’t really think it’s relevant.”

  “Well, I think it is.” I told him about my last dream, dwelling on the dragon and the lover and the blossoming desert. He just sat and listened. When I stopped, he smiled.

  “It sounds very agreeable, if rather energetic,” he applauded me.

  “But it’s weird, isn’t it? An abnormal dream?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Agreeably normal. For a start, you obviously have your male tendencies nicely coordinated with the female ones. You make yourself both the fighting hero and the swooning maiden. You have a subconscious and refreshing yearning to see the desert waste blossom. And very good color sense, I might add.”

  “On the flashes,” I began heatedly, “the average Jang dream ecstasy is to be a mote of pulsing light, sucked to and fro between fiery suns—”

  “The average, my dear, is not always as totally representative as it might be. You are what is termed an active dreamer. You like a story. In point of fact, most young people who attend the Adventure Palace in addition to the Dream Rooms invent sagas similiar to yours.”

  I felt shattered. I think I went pale. No one ever talked about it, having that sort of dream. I suppose we honestly thought we were queer to have them, and made up tales of how we’d been light motes afterward, so no one else would laugh. And I suddenly thought of Hergal telling me he dreamed of flying.

  “But I spend ages on the programming,” I tried weakly, “designing all the costumes and so on.”

  “That simply means your mind is more productive in that region than those of your friends who rely on the robot’s judgment. And you are not unique.”

  There were a few more questions after that which sort of passed in a daze. Then we went on to pictures.

  * * *

  —

  “That’s red,” I said as the screen flashed red. “And that’s blue. Pink,” I added, “pink with blue edges. Green. Green and red. Purple.” The screen switched from color to shape, speeding up even faster. “Square. Circle. Cube. Sixth-dimensional cube. Fourth-dimensional rectangle. Circle. Octagon.” I couldn’t work out why all this was going on, but we rushed away to a succession of buildings and parks and things. Was he testing my eyesight? Or whether I could talk that fast? Then the buildings and parks started appearing in weird mists of color, with dragons kicking them over or sort of fire clouds going up all around them, and eventually I said, did he have to, it made me feel funny. I couldn’t help it, it did. And he looked really delighted, the floop.

  After that we played a kind of game where a picture of a person or thing appeared, and I could direct objects at it, to which it responded accordingly. There were sky-boats I could lose in cloud, and a lovely shot of the Robotics Museum I floored with an enormous avalanche of syrup and fruit, and I chased grumpy quasi-robots with mechanical ants, and finally realized he’d lulled me and I was enjoying myself, that I’d probably done everything all wrong and proved I ought to go on being Jang for rorl upon rorl upon rorl. There was also some sort of unheard soothe-music about, making me relaxed and gaily irresponsible all over the place, or perhaps I shouldn’t have had that pill on the way down. I didn’t seem able to put the brake on.

  After the pictures, we went on to three-dimensional images, with smell and sound and aura and so on.

  I forget all the stuff we waded through. There was one of a snake-thing swallowing itself that kept cropping up, and a woman dressed in flames, dancing to drumbeats that nearly drove me mad wanting to have love with her, or be her having love with someone else, or something. I was getting confused. I honestly thought I was male once. You know, I just knew I was, only I wasn’t.

  Then we had the last two images. The first was a young male glittering with Jang gear and great big angel’s wings, with long copper hair and mustache, and a beautiful male body. Oh, he was derisann. Then, next to him appeared this older man, soolka and a bit solid-looking. You could imagine him paying for everything, and calling you “my dear,” like Hatta does but more so. And it was so obvious that, even in my bemused state, I snapped alert, and when the quasi-robot pointed I was ready.

  “What do you think of this young male?” he inquired, all smiles, and I steeled myself. I felt I was betraying the gorgeous, lovely, desirable being the Jang male was, condemning myself to a life without love with such as
he. But I said coolly:

  “Very nice. But those wings are a bore, aren’t they?” and that at least was what I usually felt, even though, right now, I fancied him, wings and all.

  The quasi-robot didn’t waver, however. Still all smiles, he pointed at the other male.

  “And how about this?”

  “Oh, he’s groshing, absolutely derisann! He drives me zaradann! I want him!”

  And then—! The two images had swapped clothes, expressions, wings, everything. I felt utterly bewildered. I knew dimly this wasn’t fair to me somehow. I stared at the copper-haired young male in the soolka clothing and staid expression, and the older male all nudity and chains and gaiety, with two great silly wings flapping about behind him, and the quasi-robot said:

  “And who do you prefer now?”

  And it seemed all right. Really. Logical. The young male had been made into an Older Person, and the Older Person was Jang. I’d won. And I’d soon take the pompous look off that copper-haired ooma.

  “Him,” I said, and I pointed at his now-hidden but beautiful chest.

  And the quasi-robot looked pleased.

  “Well, that’s right, isn’t it?” I cried. “He’s non-Jang, isn’t he? Absolutely soolka, in fact.”

  “I’ve noticed,” the Q-R remarked, rather gently, “that you’ve used Jang-slang predominantly throughout our talk.”

  “Well,” I snapped, “I’ve heard predominantly nothing else for a quarter rorl. What do you expect? And you haven’t answered my question. The young male is non-Jang now, isn’t he?”

  “He is still,” the Q-R said, “a young male.”

  And for the life of me I couldn’t see it, until the messenger had led me away for the physical examination, and I was on my back, being internally reviewed by scanners in the roof.