Читать книгу Commune 2000 AD - Mack Reynolds - Страница 9

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ted said in irritation.

“Look,” Mike said earnestly, after finishing his drink, “you’re not reading the script, you don’t get the scenario. These people don’t want to be bothered. They don’t want to be investigated by some stooge for Dollar. Sure, you won’t have any difficulty in some senior-citizen’s community, full of old folks who have banded together for companionship. But suppose you look into one of these youth communes where they refuse to vote, hide fugitives and all the rest of it. How do you think they’d respond to Doctor Theodore Swain prying around asking questions about everything they do?”

“Like I said, I’m afraid I’m committed,” Ted grumbled. “How am I going to locate some of these people?”

Mike was unhappy with him but he said, “Probably your best bet is to get names and locations from the communes you investigate. One will tell you about others. I know of some in the near vicinity you can start with. That new art colony mobile town, New Woodstock, for instance. Then there’s Lesbos, over near Kingston. It’s something like West Hurley, here, only several times larger. Then there’s Walden, up near Lake Bomoseen; it’s an agricultural commune.”

“I’ve heard about that one,” Ted nodded. “I would have thought they’d have picked a better climate.”

“They seem to like the change in season,” Mike said. “There are quite a few of these agriculture communes. The back-to-nature fling. Natural foods and all. Horse and cow shit, instead of chemical fertilizer.”

“I’ll have to take in at least one of those,” Ted nodded. “Well, tomorrow I start.”

“Zoroaster knows where you’ll end,” Mike told him sourly. “How about an after-dinner drink?”

“Not for me, tonight,” Ted told him. “Guzzle makes me sleepy and I have some thinking to do.”

“You sure as hell have,” Mike Latimer told him.

“Don’t roach me, hombre,” Ted said, coming to his feet. “See you in the future.”

“I hope you have one,” Mike said.

As Ted Swain left the building, he passed a handsome athletic-type girl, who was carrying a tennis racket and smelled faintly of perspiration, just entering. She was topless, which revealed that she was well-tanned, and flashed a brilliant smile revealing a set of teeth as beautiful as any Ted had ever seen. He ruefully remembered those teeth, from a past engagement. Fay was prone to bite, in climax.

“Hi, Fay, what spins?” he asked her.

“Hello, Ted. Listen, do you have anybody on tonight? Marsha’s been spreading around about that Hindu—or whatever it is—position of yours.”

He said, “Not tonight, sweety. Ordinarily, I’d say wizard, but I’ve got some things to work out. Try Mike, over there, if you need to get poked. He seems to be at loose ends.”

“I like bigger men,” she said. “I’ll scout around.” She grinned at him as she passed by into the dining room. “Hombre, it’s getting tough in West Hurley when a girl’s got to beg to get laid.”

“Maybe things will look up later,” he called after her as he turned to go.

Back at the house he made a few notes on what Mike had told him, including the names of the communes he’d known about.

He dubiously eyed the library-booster screen on his desk. He had planned to resume his investigations of earlier in the day but somehow didn’t feel up to it. Tomorrow was another time; he’d pitch in then, he decided.

He went on back into his kitchen, took down a ceramic canister from one of the shelves and took off the lid. There were only two pieces of hashish fudge left. He’d have to whomp up another batch; he disliked the commercial stuff. He took up one of the pieces and ate it slowly.

Ted Swain invariably ate his cannabis, either in fudge form or marmalade, since he had never learned to smoke, or, at least, not to inhale, which was necessary for any real effect from smoking pot.

By the time he had reached his teens and had taken the required school subjects in narcotics and their affiliates, the use of tobacco had dropped off precipitously. Once the profit motive had disappeared from production and distribution, and courses for all citizens were mandatory, some of the old means of flight from reality had fallen away. Not disappeared, but dropped off. Few among the younger generations took tobacco or even alcohol, for that matter. Cannabis, after it had become legalized for all those who had passed their tests on the subject, had taken over. The hard drugs were as illegal as ever and their sources so well dried up that they were all but unknown.

Ted Swain had taken his examinations on narcotics and since then had been eligible to purchase both alcohol and cannabis. He wasn’t a heavy user of either, but he enjoyed the escape both offered, occasionally.

He returned to his living room to watch the evening news broadcast that he particularly favored.

The Reunited Nations were still at their debate on whether or not there should be more consolidation of the smaller nations still remaining. Now that Interlingua was understood by literally everyone under the age of about twenty-five and most others as well, there was no reason why small islands, former tribal areas, and midget nations should not amalgamate, or possibly join one of the great political units such as United America, Common Europe, or the Soviet Complex.

At that point, Ted Swain wondered why they still called it the “Soviet Complex.” It was about as Soviet, in the old sense, as Europe or the Americas. Time had marched on.

There were evidently new breakthroughs in the field of the laser moles, which were now delving as deep as five miles into the earth’s crust in mining operations. Completely automated, of course; men couldn’t work at that depth. Well, Swain thought, that would at least mean an end to the alarm about depletion of world resources. That and extracting minerals and other valuables from the sea.

There was a brief flash from Denver, the new national capital. Warren Edgar, Chief Director of the National Security Forces, had requested of the Civil Congress an increase of 50,000 police agents in his department.

Ted looked blankly at the screen. 50,000 more police agents? For what? So far as he could see the nation already had more than it required. He had always thought that the large number of National Security men employed was just one more make-work affair.

There were a couple of items about the moon base and Satellite City, but he was completely out of his depth and their significance escaped him.

The cannabis was beginning to get to him. He felt moderately high and decided that he had made a mistake in turning Fay down. If the girls in the community wanted to try some of the more exotic sex positions he had turned up in his researches into other cultures, who was he to say no?

He turned off the screen, took out his pocket transceiver and dialed Fay. She was sitting in the community bar, obviously just a bit tight.

Ted said, “Hi, girl. Listen, I changed my mind.”

She grinned at him mockingly. “Oh, you did, eh? Wizard. But the trouble is this little mink has found another hombre, so you can just go get goosed.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “Okay, but you’ll never learn how the Mayans did it, from whoever he is. I’ve got a monopoly.”

“Shirk off, chum-pal,” she laughed, and her face faded.

He grunted mild irritation and dialed Marsha.

Marsha was in bed and behind her, faintly, he could make out a man’s head.

“Never mind,” he said. “Carry on.”

There were a multitude of other girls in town, of course, but he decided the hell with it and went on into his bedroom, undressed and retired. He picked up his bedroom library booster from the nightstand and dialed the day’s book reviews. He scanned the novels and decided on one set in Peru, some sort of an exploration-suspense story.

In the morning, following the usual routine of his toilet and then breakfast, he had to face up to it. If he was going to follow through on this project he had to get going. Possibly Englebrecht had been right; somebody else might beat him to publication. With so little material available on the communes, it was just a matter of time until writers, both scholars and otherwise, began to fill the void.

He looked down at the few notes on his desk and grimaced. He hardly knew where to begin. Well, one thing was sure: if some of these groups were as touchy as Mike Latimer had said, he wasn’t going to be able to sit around taking notes in full view.

He went back into the kitchen-dining room and to his order box and dialed the ultramarket in the community buildings. He dialed information and said, “Is there available a minirecorder of a type that can be hidden in one’s clothing, and the material recorded, beamed back to one’s home?”

A metallic voice said, “We do not have this item in stock but can secure one from the warehouses in Kingston within ten minutes, sir.”

“Please do,” Ted said. He put his pocket transceiver on the payment screen to have the amount involved deducted from his credit balance.

That brought to mind the fact that he would probably be incurring more than usual expenses during the following weeks. He said into the screen, “Credit balance please, of S-204-121645M.”

The screen said, “Three thousand and forty-two pseudodollars and fifty-four cents.”

Well, that should be more than ample, especially since there was a quarterly payment of his Universal Guaranteed Income due to him in less than a month. Ted Swain seldom used up the full amount of his income. In fact, few did. When you didn’t, your balance reverted to the nation; there was no such thing as letting it accumulate or leaving it to someone in a will. Ostentatious spending was largely a thing of the past. Not completely, but largely. At long last the country had achieved the point where it could produce an abundance for all. With it had dropped away the old keeping-up-with-the-Joneses disease. No one bothered to attempt to surpass his neighbor’s possessions.

While waiting for the electronic bug to arrive, he went into the bath. He threw his underwear, socks and the Yucatan shirt into the disposal chute, then went back into the kitchen-dining room and dialed himself fresh clothing from the ultramarket, after putting his transceiver on the payment screen. It was delivered immediately and by the time he had donned it the minirecorder equipment had arrived in the vacuum-tube delivery box.

He opened the container and took the device and its directions back into his study. He sat down and read the instructions. It was simple enough. The bug itself was tiny and had a pin with it which you could stick in some out-of-the-way part of your clothing. Just about any place would do, evidently. You left the recording box sitting right on your desk, or wherever else you wanted to put it. When you wished to record, you activated the bug and what it picked up was beamed to the disk in the recording box.

Very simple indeed. He tried it a few times, just to be sure, and was pleased with the excellent reception. He wiped the disk, on which he had been recording, and pinned the bug on the inner side of his jacket lapel.

All set to go. He dialed himself a two-seater electrosteamer and, while he waited for it, left a message on his TV phone. “I’ve gone away for a time to do some research on a new project and haven’t the vaguest idea of when I’ll be back.” Actually, of course, anyone who wanted him badly enough could always find him on their pocket transceiver.