Dr. Futurity (1960) (3 page)

Shupo.
That had been the word for him.

With great care, Parsons said, "I'm not
shupo.
" Whatever that was.

At once, they perked up. All eyes again fixed on him, the black, large, youthful eyes.

A man said, with bitterness, "Who else drills through doors?"

"Not only does he drill," a girl said, "but he's enmask."

They nodded. Their anxiety had become tinged with resentment.

"That incredible white mask," a girl said.

"We had masks," a man said. "The last time."

"Oftentimes," another said, "we wear masks when we're out."

He had, apparently, stumbled onto a marginal, covert group that operated outside the law. Conspiring, possibly political . . . in danger. Certainly in no position to menace him. Good luck for me, he decided.

"Let's see your real face," a man said. Now they all clamored, with mounting indignation.

"This is my real face," he said.

"All
white
like that?"

"And listen to him talk," another said. "Speech impediment."

"Partly deaf, too," another said, a girl. "In that he doesn't get half of what's said."

"A real
quivak
," a boy said scathingly.

A small, sharp-faced youth swaggered up to Parsons. With contempt, in a drawling, insinuating voice, he said close to Parson's face, "Let's get it over with." He held up his right thumb.

"Cut it off," a girl said, her eyes flashing. She also held out her right thumb. "Go ahead. Cut it off right now!"

So,
Parsons thought.
Political criminals are maimed in this
society. Ancient punishment
. He felt deep revulsion.
Barbaric . . . and these animal totems. Reversion to tribes
.

And on the highway, the boy who thought I wanted to be
killed. Who tried to ride me down and was perplexed when I
tried to escape.

He thought,
And the city looked so beautiful to me.

Off in the corner stood a man who had said nothing, who sipped his drink and watched. His dark, heavy features had an ironic expression; of them all, he seemed the only one who had control of his emotions. Now he moved toward Parsons and for the first time spoke up.

"You expected to find nobody here," he said. "You thought this was an empty warehouse."

"The only complexion of your type," the man continued, "in my experience, is the result of a highly contagious plague. But you seem healthy. I notice also that you have unpigmented eyes."

"Blue," a girl corrected.

"That is unpigmented," the heavy-set man continued. "What interests me most is your clothing. I'd guess 1910."

With care, Parsons said, "More like 2010."

The man smiled slightly. "Not far off, though."

"What's this, then?" Parsons asked.

The black eyes flickered. "Ah," he said. Turning to the group he said, "Well,
amici
, this is less threatening than you imagine. We have here another botch tempus-wise. I suggest we get the door relocked, and then sit down and cool." To Parsons, he said, "This is 2405. You're the first person that I know of. Up to now it's been
things.
Displacements. Said to be natural but freak. Frogs fall in the street, an extinct species. That tips off our scientific men. Stones. Debris. Bric-a-brac. You see?"

"Yes," Parsons said hesitantly.

The man shrugged. "But who can tell why." Again he smiled at Parsons. "Name's Wade," he said. "Yours?"

"Parsons."

"Hail," Wade said, lifting his open palm. "Or what is it? Noses? No matter. You care to join our party? Not frolic, but the other usage."

"Political," Parsons said.

"Yes, to change--not understand--society. I lead, here. The--what is your old word? Sill? Sold?"

"Cell," Parsons said.

"Quite right," Wade said. "As in bees, honey. Care to hear our program? Couldn't possibly mean anything to you. I suggest you exit. There is some danger to us."

Parsons said, "I've had trouble outside. For me there's danger out there, too." He indicated his face. "At least give me time to work on my color."

"Caucasic," Wade said, tasting the word as he said it, scowling.

"Give me half an hour," Parsons said tightly.

Wade made a gesture of largess. "Be our guest." He eyed Parsons. "We--they, if you will--have rigid standards. Maybe you can fit in. Unfortunately, no middle ground. Law of the excluded middle, sort of."

"In other words," Parsons said, feeling his tension and aversion rise, "it's like all primitive societies. The stranger isn't considered human. Killed on sight, is he? Anything unfamiliar." His hands were shaking; getting out a cigarette he lit it, trying to steady himself. "Your totem-device," he said, gesturing at Wade. "The eagle. You exalt eagle qualities? Ruthlessness and quickness?"

"Not exactly," Wade said. "All tribes are unified, with a common world view. We know nothing about eagles. Our tribal names came out of the Age of Darkness that followed the H-War."

Kneeling down, Parsons opened his instrument case. As quickly as possible he laid out his dermal sprays. Wade and the others watched for a few moments, and then seemed to lose interest. Their talk resumed. He thought,
Short span of
attention. Like children.

Not even like. Are. As yet he hadn't seen anyone over twenty or so. Wade had the most mature manner, the grave, educated pomposity of a left-wing college sophomore. Of course, he hadn't as yet seen a real sample. This group, the boy on the highway . . .

The door opened suddenly. A woman entered. At the sight of Parsons she stopped. "Oh," she gasped. Her dark eyes widened with astonishment. "Who . . . ?"

Wade greeted her. "Icara. This is not illness. This is one of those frogs. Displacement named Parsons." To Parsons he said. "She is my--doxy? Bawd? Great and good friend?
Puella.
"

The woman nodded nervously. She set down an armload of packages, which the other persons immediately gathered up. "Why is your skin chalk-colored?" she asked, bending down beside him, slender, breathing a little rapidly, her black lips twisting with concern.

"In my times," he said with difficulty, "we were divided into white, yellow, brown, black races. All varieties of sub-races within the species. It's obvious there was a fusion sometime later on."

Icara's finely-shaped nose wrinkled. "Separate? How awful. And your language is foul. Full of lapses. Why is the door hanging open?"

"He cut the lock," Wade sighed.

"Then he should fix it," the woman said with no hesitation. Still bending down beside him, watching him work, she said, "What's that gray box? Why are you opening those tubes? Are you going to travel back in time? Can we watch?"

"He's spraying himself," Wade said. "Darker."

Her shining dark hair came closer to him as she leaned forward and delicately sniffed. In a low voice she said to him, "Also, you should do something about your smell."

"What?" he said, jolted on several levels.

Studying him, she said, "You smell bad. Like mold."

The others, overhearing, came over to see and then give their opinions. "More like vegetables," one man said. "Maybe it's his clothes. Vegetable fiber, possibly."

Icara said, "We bathe."

"So do we," Parsons said, with anger.

"Every day?" She drew back. "I believe it's your clothes, not you." She eyed him as he sprayed on his skin-coloring. "That's a good deal better. God, you looked like a grub. Not--"

"Not human," Parsons finished ironically.

Standing up, Icara said to Wade, "I don't see--I mean, it's going to be such a problem. The Soul Cube will be thrown off. And how can he possibly be fitted with the Fountain? He's so very different, and anyhow we don't have time for this; we have to get on with the meeting. And there our door is, hanging open."

"Is that bad?" Parsons demanded.

"The door?" she said.

"To be different."

"Why, of course it's bad. If you're different then you don't belong. But you can learn to speak correctly. And look--those dyes of yours are working quite well." She smiled at him hopefully.

"Real problem," Wade said, "is orientation. He can't possibly learn. Basic concepts lacking; we got as babies." Raising an eyebrow he said to Parsons. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-two," Parsons said. He had almost finished spraying his face, neck, hands and arms; now he had begun removing his shirt.

Wade and Icara exchanged glances. "Oh, dear," Icara said. "You mean it?
Thirty
-two?" Evidently to change the subject she said, "What is that clever little gray box, and those objects in it?"

"My instruments," Parsons said, his shirt off now.

"And what about the Lists?" Wade said, half to himself. "The government won't like it." He shook his head. "He can't be fitted into any of the tribes. He'll throw the count off."

Parsons shoved the open instrument case toward Wade. "Look," he said harshly. "I don't give a damn about your tribes. You see these? They're the finest surgical tools developed in twenty-six centuries. I don't know how good or how extensive your own medical work is, but I can hold my own in any culture, past or present. With my kind of knowledge and skill, I can be of value anywhere. I know that, if nothing else. My medical knowledge will always find me a place!"

Icara and Wade looked blank. "Medical knowledge?" Icara faltered. "What's that?"

Parsons, appalled, said, "I'm a physician."

"You're a--" Icara searched for the word. "What was it I read in the history tape? Alchemist? No, that's earlier. Sorcerer? Is a physician a sorcerer? Does he predict events by examining the motion of the stars, and consulting with spirits and so on?"

"How dull," Wade murmured. "There are no spirits."

Now Parsons had sprayed his chest, shoulders and back; as rapidly as possible he rebuttoned his shirt, hoping that the film had dried. He put on his coat, tossed his instruments back in the case, and started toward the half-open door.

Wade said,
"Salvay, amicus."
He sounded gloomy.

Pausing at the door, Parsons turned to speak. But the door, on its own, whipped away from him. Half falling, he lurched, caught himself--and looked down into a grinning, sardonic little face that peered up at him gleefully. A child, he thought. A ghastly caricature of a child, and more of them, all wearing the same dainty green cap . . . costumes in a grammar school play. Pointing a metal tube at him, the first child shrilled:

"Shupo!"

He managed to kick the first
shupo
; his toe caught it and lifted it up. It still shrilled, even as it crashed into the cement wall that rose from the entranceway. But while he kicked it, the others swarmed past him, between his legs, up him and over him, their nails tearing at him as they scrabbled on by, into the meeting room.

His arms in front of his face, he plowed his way up the steps, to the street.

Below him, the
shupos
clustered at the door like venomous green wasps. He could not make out what was happening inside; he saw only their backs, and he could hear nothing but their shouts. They had the political people trapped. They did not care about him, or, if they did, they had not had time to snare him. Now, he saw their vehicles. Several had been placed to block the street. Possibly the unlocked, half-open door had let out light, which had attracted a routine patrol. Or they had followed the woman, Icara. He did not know. Perhaps they had even followed him, all the way from the start.

They lose their thumbs, do they?
he wondered.
And voluntarily?
It did not sound as if the group had decided to submit; the uproar was growing. If I brought the
shupos
here, he thought, I'm responsible; I can't run off. Hesitantly, he started back.

From the undulating mass in the shadows at the base of the stairs, two full-grown shapes split apart and emerged. A man and a woman, fighting their way up, gasping. He saw, with horror, trails of blood dripping and glistening on their faces.
Not thumbs,
he thought.
They're fighting, and it
doesn't end. That's the sacrifice, but if they won't make it,
then--their lives?

The man, Wade, called hoarsely up to him, "Parsons!" His arms lifted; he tried to propel the girl up the steps.
Shupos
clung to every part of him. "Please!" he called, his eyes blind, agonized.

Parsons came back. Dropping down the stairwell, both feet stamping, he caught hold of the girl.

Sinking back, Wade again merged, pulled back by the
shupos
, into the darkness and noise; the green shapes gleamed, shrieking in triumph.
Blood,
Parsons thought.
They're getting
blood
. Holding the girl against him he struggled up the stairs, gasping; he reached the street, staggered. Blood ran down his wrists, from the girl's body. Warm, boneless, she slipped closer to him as he walked. Her head lolled. Her untied hair, shimmering, spread out. Icara. Not surprising, he thought in a dulled fashion. Love before politics.

Here, in the darkness of the street, he wandered along, panting for breath, his clothing torn, carrying Wade's doxy, or girl, or whatever. Do they have last names? He asked himself.

The noise of the fracas had attracted passers-by; they flocked, calling excitedly. Several glanced at Parsons as he carried the unconscious girl. Dead? No. He could feel her heart beating. The passers-by hurried on in the opposite direction, to the scene of the fighting.

Worn out, he halted to gather up the girl and hoist her up onto his shoulder. Her face brushed his, the excellent smooth skin.
Lips,
he thought,
warm and moist . . . what a pretty
woman. Twenty or so
.

Turning the corner he continued on, almost unable to proceed. His lungs hurt and he had trouble seeing. Now he had come out onto a brightly lighted street. He saw many people, a glimpse of stores, signs, parked vehicles. Activity, and the pleasant background of leisure. From the doorway of a store--a dress shop, by the looks of the window display-- music swirled, and he recognized it: the Beethoven
Archduke
Trio.
Bizarre, he thought.