Two Dooms. Cyril M. Kornbluth

Two Dooms - Cyril M. Kornbluth


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slipping you in as a young man who hates the Syndic for some valid reason—"

      "Confound it, you were just telling me that they can't be fooled!"

      "We won't fool them. You'll be a young man who hates the Syndic. We'll tear down your present personality a gray cell at a time. We'll pump you full of Seconal every day for a quarter of a year.... We'll obliterate your personality under a new one. We'll bury Charles Orsino under a mountain of suggestions, compulsions and obsessions shoveled at you sixteen hours a day while you're too groggy to resist. Naturally the supplanting personality will be neurotic, but that works in with the mission."

      He struggled with a metaphysical concept, for the first time in his life. "But—but—how will I know I'm me?"

      "We think we can put a trigger on it. When you take the Government oath of allegiance, you should bounce back."

      He did not fail to note a little twin groove between her brows that appeared when she said think and should. He knew that in a sense he was nearer death now than when Halloran's bullet had been intercepted.

      "Are you staying with it?" she asked simply.

      Various factors entered into it. A life for the Syndic, as in the children's history books. That one didn't loom very large. But multiply it by it sounds like more fun than hot-rod polo, and that by this is going to raise my stock sky-high with the family and you had something. Somehow, under Lee Falcaro's interested gaze, he neglected to divide it by if it works.

      "I'm staying with it," he said.

      She grinned. "It won't be too hard," she said. "In the old days there would have been voting record, social security numbers, military service, addresses they could check on—hundreds of things. Now about all we have to fit you with is a name and a subjective life."

      It began that spring day and went on into late fall.

      The ringing bell.

      The flashing light.

      The wobbling pendulum.

      You are Max Wyman of Buffalo Syndic Territory. You are Max Wyman of Buffalo Syndic Territory. You are Max Wyman of Buffalo Syndic....

      Mom fried pork sausages in the morning, you loved the smell of pumpernickel from the bakery in Vesey Street.

      Mr. Watsisname the English teacher with the mustache wanted you to go to college—

      Nay, ye can not, though ye had Argus eyes, In abbeyes they haue so many suttyll spyes; For ones in the yere they have secret vvsytacyons, And yf ony prynce reforme....

      —but the stockyard job was closer, they needed breakdown men—

      You are Max Wyman of Buffalo Syndic Territory. You are—

      The ringing bell.

      The flashing light.

      The wobbling pendulum.

      And the pork sausages and the teacher with the mustache and poems you loved and

       page 24, paragraph 3, maximum speed on a live-cattle walkway is three miles per hour: older walkways hold this speed with reduction gears coupled to a standard 18-inch ehrenhafter unit. Standard practice in new construction calls for holding speed by direct drive from a specially-wound ehrenhafter. This places a special obligation in breakdown maintenance men, who must distinguish between the two types, carry two sets of wiring diagrams and a certain number of mutually-uninterchangeable parts, though good design principles hold these to a minimum. The main difference in the winding of a standard 18-incher and a lowspeed ehrenhafter rotor—

      Of course things are better now, Max Wyman, you owe a great debt to Jim Hogan, Father of the Buffalo Syndic, who fought for your freedom in the great old days, and to his descendants who are tirelessly working for your freedom and happiness.

      And bow-happiness is a girl named Inge Klohbel now that you're almost a man.

      You are Max Wyman of Buffalo Syndic Territory. You are Max Wyman of Buffalo Syndic Territory.

      And Inge Klohbel is why you put away the crazy dream of scholarship, for her lips and hair and eyes and legs mean more to you than anything, more than

      Later phonologic changes include palatal mutation; i.e., before cht and hs the diphthongs eo, io, which resulted from breaking, became ie (i, y) as in cneoht, chieht, and seox (x equalling hs), siex, six, syx....

      the crazy dream of scholarship, what kind of a way is that to repay the Mob and

      The ringing bell.

      The flashing light.

      The wobbling pendulum.

      repay the Syndic and young Mike Hogan all over the neighborhood suddenly and Inge says he did stop and say hello but of course he was just being polite.

      so you hit the manuals hard and one day you go out on a breakdown call and none of the older men could figure out why the pump was on the blink; a roaring, chewing monster of a pump it was, sitting there like a dead husk and the cattlefeed backed up four miles to a storage tank in the suburbs and the steers in the yards bawling with hunger, and you traced the dead wire, you out with the spot-welder, a zip of blue flame and the pump began to chew again and you got the afternoon off.

      * * * * *

      And there they were.

       Lee Falcaro: (Bending over the 'muttering, twitching carcass) Adrenalin. Brighter picture and louder sound.

       Assistant: (Opening a pinch cock in the tube that enters the arm, increasing video contrast, increasing audio): He's weakening.

       Lee Falcaro: (In a whisper) I know. I know. But this is IT.

       Assistant: (Inaudibly) You cold-blooded bitch.

      You are Max Wyman, you are Max Wyman, and you don't know what to do about the Syndic that betrayed you, about the girl who betrayed you with the living representative of the Syndic, about the dream of scholarship that lies in ruins, the love that lies in ruins after how many promises and vows, the faith of twenty years that lies in ruins after how many declarations.

      The ringing bell.

      The flashing light.

      The wobbling pendulum.

      And a double whiskey with a beer chaser.

       Lee Falcaro: The alcohol. (It drips from a sterile graduate, trickles through the rubber tubing and into the arm of the mumbling, sweating carcass. The molecules mingle with the molecules of serum: In seconds they are washed against the cell-walls of the forebrain. The cell-walls their structure as the alcohol molecules bumble against them; the lattices of jelly that wall in the cytoplasm and nuclear jelly become thinner than they were. Streams of electrons that had coursed in familiar paths through chains of neurones find easier paths through the poison-thinned cell-walls. A "Memory" or an "Idea" or a "Hope" or a "Value" that was a configuration of neurones linked by electron streams vanishes when the electron streams find an easier way to flow a New "Memories," "Ideas," "Hopes" and "Values" that are configurations of neurones linked by electron streams are born.)

      Love and loyalty die, but not as if they had never been. Their ghosts remain, Max Wyman and you are haunted by them. They hound you from Buffalo to Erie, but there is no oblivion deep enough in the Mex joints, or in Tampa tequila or Pittsburgh zubrovka or New York gin.

      You tell incurious people who came to the place on the corner for a shot and some talk that you're the best breakdown man that ever came out of Erie; you tell them women are no God-damn good, you tell them the Syndic—here you get sly and look around with drunken caution, lowering your voice—you tell them the Syndic's no God-damned good, and you drunkenly recite poetry until they move away, puzzled and annoyed.


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