My Name is Legion Read online

  I've got to thank you for what you did while Demmy and I were down there. It ...

  It was nothing, I said. You could have fixed it yourself in a minute if somebody else had been down and you'd been up here.

  It didn't work out that way, though, and we're happy you were handy.

  I consider myself thanked, I said, raising the plastic beer stein, they're all plastic these days. Damn it!

  What kind of shape was that shaft in? I asked him.

  Excellent, he said, furrowing his wide, ruddy forehead and putting lots of wrinkles around his bluish eyes.

  You don't look as confident as you sound.

  He chuckled then, took a small sip.

  Well, it's never been done before. Naturally, we're all a little scared ...

  I took that as a mild appraisal of the situation.

  But, top to bottom, the shaft was in good shape? I asked.

  He looked around him, probably wondering whether the place was bugged. It was, but he wasn't saying anything that could hurt him, or me. If he had been, I'd have shut him up.

  Yes, he agreed.

  Good, and I thought back on the sayings of the short man with the wide shoulders. Very good.

  That's a strange attitude, he said. You're just a paid technician.

  I take a certain pride in my work.

  He gave me a look I did not understand, then, That sounds strangely like a twentieth-century attitude.

  I shrugged.

  I'm old-fashioned. Can't get away from it.

  I like that, he said. I wish more people were that way, these days.

  What's Demmy up to, now?

  He's sleeping.

  Good.

  They ought to promote you.

  I hope not.

  Why not?

  I don't like responsibilities.

  But you take them on yourself, and you handle them well.

  I was lucky, once. Who knows what will happen, next time ... ?

  He gave me a furtive look.

  What do you mean, 'next time'?

  I mean, if it happens again, I said. I just happened to be in the control room ...

  I knew then that he was trying to find out what I knew, so neither of us knew much, though we both knew that something was wrong.

  He stared at me, sipped his beer, kept staring at me, then nodded. You're trying to say that you're lazy?

  That's right.

  Crap.

  I shrugged and sipped mine.

  Back around 1957, fifty years ago, there was a thing called AMSOC, and it was a joke. It was a takeoff on the funny names of alphabetized scientific organizations. It stood for the American Miscellaneous Society. It represented something other than a joke on the organization man, however. This was because Doctor Walter Munk of Scripps Institution of Oceanography and Doctor Harry Hess of Princeton were members, and they had come up with a strange proposal which later died for lack of funds. Like John Brown, however, while it lay moldering in its grave, its spirit kept churning its feet.

  It is true that the Mohole Project died stillborn, but that which eventually came of the notion was even grander and more creative.

  Most people know that the crust of the Earth is twenty-five or more miles thick under the continents, and that it would be rough drilling there. Many also know that under the oceans the crust is much thinner. It would be quite possible to drill there, into the top of the mantle, penetrating the Mohorovicic Discontinuity, however. They had talked about all kinds of data that could be picked up. Well, okay. But consider something else: sure, it's true that a sampling of the mantle would provide some answers to questions involving radioactivity and heat flow, geological structure and the age of the Earth. Working with natural materials, we would know boundaries, thicknesses of various layers within the crust; and we could check these against what we had learned from the seismic waves of earthquakes gone by. All that and more. A sample of the sediments would give us a complete record of the Earth's history, before man ever made the scene. But there is more involved than that, a lot more.

  Another one? Martin asked me.

  Yeah. Thanks.

  If you study the International Union of Geology and Geophysics publication, Active Volcanoes of the World, and if you map out all those which are no longer active, you will note certain volcanic and seismic belts. There is the Ring of Fire surrounding the Pacific Ocean. Start along the Pacific coast of South America, and you can follow it up north through Chile, Ecuador, Colombia, Central America, Mexico, the western United States, Canada, and Alaska, then around and down through Kamchatka, the Kuriles, Japan, the Philippines, Indonesia, and New Zealand. Forgetting about the Mediterranean, there is also an area in the Atlantic, near Iceland.

  We sat there.

  I raised mine and took a sip.

  There are over six hundred volcanoes in the world which could be classified as active, though actually they don't do much most of the time.

  We were going to add one more.

  We were going to create a volcano in the Atlantic Ocean. More specifically, a volcanic island, like Surtsey. This was Project RUMOKO.

  I'm going down again, said Martin. Sometime during the next few hours, I guess. I'd appreciate it if you would do me the favor of keeping an eye on that goddam machine next time around. I'd make it up to you, some way.

  Okay, I said. Let me know when the next time is, as soon as you know it, and I'll try to hang around the control room. In case something does go wrong. I'll try to do what I did earlier, if there's no one around who can do any better.

  He slapped me on the shoulder.

  That's good enough for me. Thanks.

  You're scared.

  Yeah.

  Why?

  This damned thing seems jinxed. You've been my good-luck charm. I'll buy you beers from here to hell and back again, just to hang around. I don't know what's wrong. Just bad luck, I guess.

  Maybe, I said.

  I stared at him for a second, then turned my attention to my drink.

  The isothermic maps show that this is the right place, the right part of the Atlantic, I said. The only thing I'm sacred about is none of my business.

  What's that? he asked.

  There are various things about magma, I said, and some of them frighten me.

  What do you mean? he asked.

  You don't know what it's going to do, once it's released. It could be anything from a Krakatoa to an Etna.

  The magma itself may be of any composition. Its exposure to water and air could produce any results.

  I thought we had a guarantee it was safe?

  A guess. An educated guess, but only a guess. That's all.

  You're scared?

  You bet your ass.

  We're in danger ... ?

  Not us so much, since we'll be the hell out of the way. But this thing could affect world temperatures, tides, weather. I'm a little leery, I'll admit it.

  He shook his head. I don't like it.

  You probably had all your bad luck already, I said. I wouldn't lose any sleep ...

  I guess you're right.

  We finished our beers and I stood.

  I've got to be running.

  Can I buy you another?

  No, thanks. I've got some work to do.

  Well, I'll be seeing you.

  Yes. Take it easy, and I left the lounge and moved back to the upper decks.

  The moon spilled sufficient light to make shadows about me, and the evening was chilly enough for me to button my collar.

  I watched the waves for a little while, then returned to my cabin.

  I took a shower, listened to the late news, read for a time. Finally, I turned in and took the book to bed with me. After a while, I got drowsy, set the book on the bedside table, turned out the lamp, and let the ship rock me to sleep.

  ... Had to get a good night's sleep. After all, tomorrow was RUMOKO.

  How long? A few hours, I guess. Then I was awakened by something.

&nb
sp; My door was quietly unlocked, and I heard a light footfall.

  I lay there, wide awake, with my eyes dosed, waiting.

  I heard the door close, lock.

  Then the light came on, and there was a piece of steel near to my head, and a hand was upon my shoulder.

  Wake up, mister! someone said.

  I pretended to do so, slowly.

  There were two of them, and I blinked and rubbed my eyes, regarding the gun about twenty inches away from my head.

  What the hell is this? I said.

  No, said the man holding the metal. We ask. You answer. It is not the other way around.

  I sat up, leaned back against the headboard.

  Okay, I said. What do you want?

  Who are you?

  Albert Schweitzer, I replied.

  We know the name you're using. Who are you, really?

  That's it, I said.

  We don't think so.

  I'm sorry.

  So are we.

  So?

  You will tell us about yourself and your mission.

  I don't know what you're talking about.

  Get up!

  Then please give me my robe. It's hanging on the hook inside the bathroom door.

  The gunsel leaned toward the other. Get it, check it, give it to him, he said.

  And I regarded him.

  He had a handkerchief over the lower part of his face. So did the other guy. Which was kind of professional. Amateurs tend to wear masks. Upper type. Masks of this sort conceal very little. The lower part of the face is the most easily identifiable.

  Thanks, I said, when the one guy handed me my blue terry-cloth robe.

  He nodded, and I threw it about my shoulders, put my arms into the sleeves, whipped it about me, and sat up on the edge of the bed.

  Okay, I said. What do you want?

  Who are you working for? said the first.

  Project RUMOKO, I replied.

  He slapped me, lightly, with his left hand, still holding the gun steady.

  No, he said. The whole story, please.

  I don't know what you're talking about, but may I have a cigarette?

  All right, No. Wait. Take one of mine. I don't know what might be in your pack.

  I took one, lit it, inhaled, breathed smoke.

  I don't understand you, I said. Give me a better clue as to what you want to know and maybe I can help you. I'm not looking for trouble.

  This seemed to relax them slightly, because they both sighed. The man asking the questions was about five foot eight in height, the other about five-ten. The taller man was heavy, though. Around two hundred pounds, I'd say.

  They seated themselves in two nearby chairs. The gun was leveled at my breast.

  Relax, then, Mister Schweitzer. We don't want trouble, either, said the talkative one.

  Great, said I. Ask me anything and I'll give you honest answers, prepared to lie my head off. Ask away.

  You repaired the J-9 unit today.

  I guess everybody knows that.

  Why did you do it?

  Because two men were going to die, and I knew how.

  How did you acquire this expertise?

  For Chrissakes, I'm an electrical engineer! I said. I know how to figure circuits! Lots of people do!

  The taller guy looked at the shorter one. He nodded. Then why did you try to silence Asquith? the taller one asked me.

  Because I broke a regulation by touching the unit, I said. I'm not authorized to service it.

  He nodded again. Both of them had very black and clean-looking hair and well-developed pectorals and biceps, as seen through their light shirts.

  You seem to be an ordinary, honest citizen, said the tall one, who went to the school of his choice, graduated, remained unmarried, took this job. Perhaps everything is as you say, in which case we do you wrong. However, the circumstances are very suspicious. You repaired a complex machine which you had no right to repair ...

  I nodded.

  Why? he asked,

  I've got a funny thing about death: I don't like to see people do it, I said. Then, Who do you work for? I asked. Some sort of intelligence agency?

  The shorter one smiled. The other said, We are not permitted to say. You obviously understand these things, however. Our interest is only a certain curiosity as to why you kept quiet with respect to what was obviously sabotage.

  So, I've told you.

  Yes, but you are lying. People do not disobey orders the way you did.

  Crap! There were lives at stake!

  He shook his head.

  I fear that we must question you further, and in a different manner.

  Whenever I am awaiting the outcome of peril or reflecting upon the few lessons that can be learned in the course of a misspent life, a few bubbles of memory appear before me, are struck by all the color changes the skin of a bubble undergoes in the space of an instant, burst then, having endured no longer than a bubble, and persist as feelings for a long while after.

  Bubbles ... There is one down in the Caribbean called New Eden. Depth, approximately 175 fathoms. As of the most recent census, it was home to over 100,000 people. A huge, illuminated geodesic dome it is, providing an overhead view with which Euclid would have been pleased. For great distances about this dome, strung lights like street lamps line avenues among rocks, bridges over canyons, thoroughfares through mountains. The bottom-going seamobiles move like tanks along these ways; minisubs hover or pass at various altitudes; slick-seeming swimmers in tight and colorful garb come and go, entering and departing the bubble or working about it.

  I vacationed there for a couple of weeks one time, and although I discovered claustrophobic tendencies of which I had previously been unaware, it was still quite pleasant. The people were different from surface dwellers. They were rather like what I fancy the old explorers and frontiersmen to have been. Somewhat more individualistic and independent than the average topside citizen, but with a certain sense of community and the feelings of responsibility attendant thereto. This is doubtless because they are frontiersmen, having volunteered for combinations of programs involving both the relief of minor population pressures and the exploitation of the ocean's resources. Whatever, they accept tourists. They accepted me, and I went there and swam with them, toured on their subs, viewed their mines and hydroponic gardens, their homes and their public buildings. I remember the beauty of it, I remember the people, I remember the way the sea hung overhead like the night sky as seen through the faceted eye of some insect. Or maybe like a giant insect on the other side, looking in. Yes, that seems more likely. Perhaps the personality of the place appealed to a certain rebellious tendency I occasionally felt stirring fathoms deep within my own psyche.

  While it was not really an Eden Under Glass, and while those crazy and delightful little bubble cities are definitely not for me, there was something there that turned it into one of those funny, colorful things that sometimes come to me, bubblelike, whenever I am awaiting the outcome of peril or reflecting upon the few lessons that can be learned in the course of a misspent life.

  I sighed, took a final drag on my cigarette and crushed it out, knowing that in a moment my bubble would burst.

  What is it like to be the only man in the world who does not exist? It is difficult to say. It is not easy to generalize when you are only sure of the particulars in one case, your own. With me, it was a kind of unusual deal, and I doubt there is a parallel one, anywhere. I used to bitch and moan over progressive mechanization. No more.

  It was strange, the way that it happened:

  Once I wrote programs for computers. That is how the whole thing got started.

  One day, I learned an unusual and frightening piece of news ...

  I learned that the whole world was going to exist on tape.

  How?

  Well, it's tricky.

  Everybody, nowadays, has a birth certificate, academic record, credit rating, a history of all his travels and places of residence and
, ultimately, there is a death certificate somewhere on file. Once, all things of this sort existed in separate places. Then, some people set out to combine them. They called it a Central Data Bank. It resulted in massive changes in the order of human existence. Not all of these changes, I am now certain, were for the better.

  I was one of those people, and it was not until things were well along that I began to have second thoughts on the matter. By then, it was too late to do anything about it, I supposed.

  What the people in my project were doing was linking every data bank in existence, so that public records, financial records, medical records, specialized technical records all existed and were available from one source, through key stations whose personnel had access to this information at various levels of confidentiality.

  I have never considered anything to be wholly good or wholly evil. But this time, I came close to the former feeling. I had thought that it was going to be a very good thing indeed. I had thought that in the wonderful, electrified fin de siecle of McLuhan in which we lived, a thing like this was necessary: every home with closed-circuit access to any book ever written, or any play ever recorded on tape or in a crystal, or any college lecture in the past couple of decades, or any bits of general statistical knowledge desired (you can't lie with statistics, theoretically, if everybody has access to your source, and can question it directly); every commercial and government outfit with access to your assets, your income, and a list of every expenditure you've ever made; every attorney with a court order with access to a list of every place you've ever resided, and with whom, and every commercial vehicle on which you've ever traveled, and with whom. Your whole life, all your actions, laid out like a chart of the nervous system in a neurology class, this impressed me as good.

  For one thing, it seemed that it would eliminate crime. Only a crazy man, I thought, would care to err with all that to stand against him; and since medical records were all on file, even the psychopath could be stopped.

  ... And speaking of medicine, how fine if the computer and medical people diagnosing you for anything had instant access to all your past medical history! Think of all the cures which could be effected! Think of the deaths prevented!