Solar Lottery

TWO

EARLY in the morning Leon Cartwright drove carefully along the narrow, twisting streets in his ancient '82 Chevrolet, his competent hands firmly gripping the wheel, his eyes on the traffic ahead. As usual, he wore an outmoded but immaculate double-breasted suit. A shapeless hat was crushed against his head, and in his vest pocket a watch ticked to itself. Everything about him breathed obsolescence and age; he was perhaps sixty, a lean, sinewy-built man, very tall and straight, but small-boned, with mild blue eyes and liver-spotted wrists. His arms were thin, but strong and wiry. He had a quiet, almost gentle expression on his gaunt face. He drove as if not completely trusting either himself or the aged car.

In the back seat lay heaps and stacks of mailing-tapes ready to be sent out. The floor sagged under heavy bundles of metalfoil to be imprinted and franked. An old raincoat was wadded in the corner, together with a stale container of lunch and a number of discarded overshoes. Wedged under the seat was a loaded Hopper popper, stuck there years ago.

The buildings on both sides of Cartwright were old and faded, thin peeling things of dusty windows and drab neon signs. They were relics of the last century, like himself and his car. Drab men, in faded pants and workjackets, hands in their pockets, eyes blank and unfriendly, lounged in doorways and against walls. Dumpy middle-aged women in shapeless black coats dragged rickety shopping carts into dark stores, to pick fretfully over the limp merchandise, stale food to be lugged back to their stuffy urine-tinged apartments, to their restless families.

Mankind's lot, Cartwright observed, hadn't changed much, of late. The Classification system, the elaborate Quizzes, hadn't done most people any good. The unks, the unclassified, remained.

In the early twentieth century the problem of production had been solved; after that it was the problem of consumption that plagued society. In the 1950's and '60's, consumer commodities and farm products began to pile up in vast towering mountains all over the Western World. As much as possible was given away—but that threatened to subvert the open market. By 1980, the pro tem solution was to heap up the products and burn them: billions of dollars worth, week after week.

Each Saturday, townspeople had collected in sullen, resentful crowds to watch the troops squirt gasoline on the cars and toasters and clothes and oranges and coffee and cigarettes that nobody could buy, igniting them in a blinding conflagration. In each town there was a burning-place, fenced off, a kind of rubbish and ash heap, where the fine things that could not be purchased were systematically destroyed.

The Quizzes had helped, a trifle. If people couldn't afford to buy the expensive manufactured goods, they could still hope to win them. The economy was propped up for decades by elaborate give-away devices that dispensed tons of glittering merchandise. But for every man who won a car and a refrigerator and a tv set there were millions who didn't. Gradually, over the years, prizes in the Quizzes grew from material commodities to more realistic items: power and prestige. And at the top, the final exalted post: dispenser of power—Quizmaster, and that meant running the Quiz itself.

The disintegration of the social and economic system had been slow, gradual, and profound. It went so deep that people lost faith in natural law itself. Nothing seemed stable or fixed; the universe was a sliding flux. Nobody knew what came next. Nobody could count on anything. Statistical prediction became popular... the very concept of cause and effect died out. People lost faith in the belief that they could control their environment; all that remained was probable sequence: good odds in a universe of random chance.

The theory of Minimax—the M-Game—was a kind of Stoic withdrawal, a nonparticipation in the aimless swirl in which people struggled. The M-game player never really committed himself; he risked nothing, gained nothing... and wasn't overwhelmed. He sought to hoard his pot and Strove to outlast the other players. The M-Game player sat waiting for the game to end; that was the best that could be hoped for.

Minimax, the method of surviving the great game of life, was invented by two twentieth century mathematicians, von Neumann and Morgenstern. It had been used in the Second World War, in the Korean War, and in the Final War. Military strategists and then financiers had played with the theory. In the middle of the century, von Neumann was appointed to the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission: recognition of the burgeoning significance of his theory. And in two centuries and a half, it became the basis of Government.

That was why Leon Cartwright, electronics repairman and human being with a conscience, had become a Prestonite.

Signalling, Cartwright pulled his ancient car to the curb. Ahead of him the Society building gleamed dirty white in the May sun, a narrow three-story structure of wood, its single sign jutting up above the laundry next door: PRESTON SOCIETY Main Offices at Rear.

This was the back entrance, the loading platform. Cartwright opened the back of the car and began dragging cartons of mailing literature onto the sidewalk. The people swarming by ignored him; a few yards up a fishmonger was unloading his truck in similar fashion. Across the street a looming hotel shielded a motley family of parasitic stores and dilapidated business establishments: loan shops, cigar stores, girl houses, bars.

Rolling a carton onto his knees, Cartwright trundled it down the narrow walk and into the gloomy storage room of the building. A single atronic bulb glowed feebly in the dank darkness; supplies were stacked on all sides, towering columns of crates and wire-bound boxes. He found an empty spot, set down his heavy load, and then passed through the hall and into the cramped little front office.

The office and its barren reception room were—as usual-empty. The front door of the building was standing wide open. Cartwright picked up a heap of mail; sitting down on the sagging couch, he spread the mail out on the table and began going through it. There was nothing of importance: bills for printing, freight, rent, overdue penalties for power and garbage collection, water and raw supplies.

Opening a letter, he removed a five dollar bill and a long note in a shaky, old-woman's handwriting. There were a few more microscopic contributions. Adding it up, he found that the Society had taken in thirty dollars.

"They're getting restless," Rita O'Neill said, appearing in the doorway behind him. "Maybe we should begin."

Cartwright sighed. The time had come. Pulling himself to his feet, he emptied an ashtray, straightened a pile of dog-eared copies of Preston's _Flame Disc_, and reluctantly followed the girl down the narrow hall. Below the fly-specked photograph of John Preston, just to the left of the row of scarf-hooks, he stepped forward and passed through the false slot into the vague interior passage that ran parallel to the ordinary corridor.

At sight of him, the roomful of people ceased talking abruptly. All eyes were turned; an eager hope mixed with fright shuddered around the room. Relieved, a few of the people edged toward him; the murmur boiled up again and became a babble. Now they were all trying to get his attention. A ring of excited, gesturing men and women, formed about him as he moved toward die center.

"Here we go," Bill Konklin said, relieved.

Beside him, Mary Uzich said eagerly, "We've waited so long—we just can't wait any longerl"

Cartwright felt in his pockets until he found his checklist. A bewildering variety of people crowded anxiously around him: Mexican laborers mute and frightened, clutching their belongings, a hard-faced urban couple, a jet stoker, Japanese optical workmen, a red-lipped bed girl, the middle-aged owner of a retail dry goods store that had gone quack, an agronomy student, a patent medicine salesman, a cook, a nurse, a carpenter. All of them were perspiring, shoving, listening, watching intently.

These were people with skill in their hands—not their heads. Their abilities had come from years of practice and work, from direct contact with objects. They could grow plants, sink foundations, repair leaking pipes, maintain machinery, weave clothing, cook meals. According to the Classification system they were failures.

"I think everybody's here," Jereti said tensely. Cartwright took a deep breath of prayer and raised his voice so all could hear. "I want to say something before you leave. The ship is ready to go; it's been checked over by our friends at the field."

"That's correct," Captain Groves corroborated; he was an impressive, stern-faced Negro in leather jacket, gloves, and boots.

Cartwright rattled his scrap of crumpled metalfoil. "Well, this is it. Anybody have any doubts? Anybody want to back out?"

There was excitement and tension, but none of them stirred. Mary Uzich smiled at Cartwright and then up at the young man beside her; Konklin put his arm around her and pulled her close.

"This is what we've worked for," Cartwright continued. "This is the moment our money and time have gone to. I wish John Preston were here; he'd be glad to see this. He knew it would come, some day. He knew there'd be a ship heading out past the colony planets, beyond the regions controlled by the Directorate. In his heart he was certain that men would seek new frontiers... and freedom." He examined his watch. "Good-bye and good luck—you're on your way. Keep tight hold of your charms and let Groves do the steering."

One by one they gathered their meager possessions and shuffled out of the room. Cartwright shook hands with them, mumbled words of hope and comfort. When the last of them had gone he stood for a moment, silent and thoughtful, in the now deserted room.

"I'm glad that's over," Rita declared, relaxing. "I was afraid some of them would back out."

"The unknown is a terrible place. There are monsters out there. And in one of his books Preston describes weird calling voices." Cartwright poured himself a cup of black coffee from the silex. "Well, we have our part here. I don't know which is worse."

"I never really believed it," Rita said, smoothing her black hair with an unconscious push of her slim, competent fingers. "You can change the universe... there's nothing you can't do."

"There's plenty I can't do," Cartwright disagreed dryly. "I'll try a few things, start some activity here and there, put an end to something else. But they'll get me, before long."

Rita was appalled. "How—can you say that?"

"I'm being realistic." His voice was hard, almost savage. "Assassins have killed every unk the bottle ever twitched. How long do you think it'll take them to get the Challenge Convention set up? The checks and balances of this system work to check us and balance them. As far as they're concerned, I broke the rules by just wanting to play. Anything that happens to me from now on is my own fault."

"Do they know about the ship?"

"I doubt it." Morbidly, he added, "I hope not."

"You can last that long, until the ship is safe. Isn't that the—" Rita broke off, turning in fear.

From outside the building came the sound of jets. A ship was setting down on the roof, a sudden metallic whirr like that of a steel insect. There was a staggering thump, then voices and quick movements from the floors above, as the roof trap was yanked open.

Rita saw the look on her uncle's face, the momentary terror gleaming out, the brief flash of awareness. Then the benign weariness and quietude filmed over, and he smiled haltingly at her.

"They're here," he observed, in a faint, almost inaudible voice.

Heavy military boots showed in the corridor. The green-uniformed Directorate guards fanned out around the meeting chamber; after them came a calm-faced Directorate official with a locked briefcase gripped.

"You're Leon Cartwright?" the official inquired. Leafing through the notebook he said, "Give me your papers. You have them with you?"

Cartwright slid his plastic tube from his inside coat pocket, unsnapped the seal, and spread out the thin metal-foil. One by one he laid them on the table. "Birth-certificate. School and training records. Psych-analysis. Medical certificate. Criminal record. Status permit. Statement of fealty history. Last fealty release. All the rest." He pushed the heap toward the official and then removed his coat and rolled up his sleeve.

The official glanced briefly at the papers and then compared the identification tabs with the markings seared deep in the flesh of Cartwright's forearm. "We'll have to examine fingerprints and brain pattern later. Actually, this is superfluous; I know you're Leon Cartwright." He pushed back the papers. "I'm Major Shaeffer, from the Directorate teep Corps. There are other teeps nearby. There was a power shift this morning, a little after nine."

"I see," Cartwright said, rolling his sleeve down and putting on his coat again.

Major Shaeffer touched the smooth edge of Cartwright's status permit. "You're not classified, are you?"

"No."

"I suppose your p-card was collected by your protector-Hill. That's the usual system, isn't it?"

"That's the usual system," Cartwright said. "But I'm not under fief to any Hill. As you'll see on my paper, I was discharged earlier this year."

Shaeffer shrugged. "Then, of course, you put your power card up for sale on the blackmarket." He closed his notebook with a snap. "Most twitches of the bottle bring up unclassifieds, since they outnumber classifieds by such a margin. But one way or another, classifieds manage to get hold of the power cards."

Cartwright laid his power card on the table. "There's mine."

Shaeffer was astounded. "Incredible." He rapidly scanned Cartwright's mind, a suspicious, puzzled expression on his face. "You knew already. You knew this was coming."

"Yes."

"Impossible. It just occurred—we came instantly. The news hasn't even reached Verrick; you're the first person outside the Corps to know." He moved close to Cartwright. "There's something wrong here. How did you know it was coming?"

"That two-headed calf," Cartwright said vaguely.

The teep official was lost in thought, still exploring Cartwright's mind. Abruptly he broke away. "It doesn't matter. I suppose you have some inside pipeline. I could find out; it's in your mind, someplace deep down, carefully larded over." He stuck out his hand. "Congratulations. If it's all right with you, we'll take up positions around here. In a few minutes Verrick will be informed. We want to be ready," He pushed Cartwright's p-card into his hand. "Hang onto this. It's your sole claim to your new position."

"I guess," Cartwright said, beginning to breathe again, "I can count on you." He pocketed the power card carefully.

"I guess you can." Shaeffer licked his lip reflectively. "It seems strange... . You're now our superior and Verrick is nothing. It may be some time before we can make the psychological .change-over. Some of the younger Corps members who don't remember any other Quizmaster..." He shrugged. "I suggest you place yourself in Corps hands for awhile. We can't stay here, and a lot of people at Batavia have personal fealties to Verrick, not to the position. We'll have to screen everybody and systematically weed them out. Verrick has been using them to gain control over the Hills."

"I'm not surprised."

"Verrick is shrewd." Shaeffer measured Cartwright critically. "During his Quizmastership he was challenged repeatedly. There was always somebody filtering in. We were kept busy, but I suppose that's what we're for."

"I'm glad you came," Cartwright admitted. "When I heard the noise I thought it was—Verrick."

"It would have been, if we had notified him." There was grim amusement in Shaeffer's eyes. "If it hadn't been for the older teeps, we probably would have notified him first and taken our time getting here. Peter Wakeman made a big thing of it. Responsibility and duty, that sort of thing."

Cartwright made a mental note. He could have to look up Peter Wakeman.

"As we approached," Shaeffer continued slowly, "our first group picked up the thoughts of a large group of people, apparently leaving here. Your name was in their minds, and this location."

Cartwright became instantly wary. "Oh?"

"They were moving away from us, so we couldn't catch much. Something about a ship. Something to do with a long flight"

"You sound like a Government fortuneteller.''

"There was an intense field around them of excitement and fear."

"I can't tell you anything," Cartwright repeated, with emphasis. "I don't know anything about it." Ironically, he added: "Some creditors, perhaps."

In the courtyard outside the Society building Rita O'Neill paced around in a small, aimless circle, feeling suddenly lost. The great moment had come and passed; now it was part of history.

Against the Society building rose the small, barren crypt in which the remains of John Preston lay. She could see his dark, ill-formed body suspended within the yellowed fly-specked plasti-cube, hands folded over his bird-like chest, eyes shut, glasses eternally superfluous. Small hands, crippled with arthritis, a hunched-over near-sighted creature. The crypt was dusty; trash and debris were littered around it. Stale rubbish the wind had blown there and left. Nobody came to see Preston's remains. The crypt was a forgotten, lonely monument, housing a dismal shape of clay, impotent, discarded.

But half a mile away the fleet of archaic cars was unloading its passengers at the field. The battered GM ore freighter was jammed tight on the launcher; the people were clumsily climbing the narrow metal ramp into the unfamiliar hull.

The fanatics were on their way. They were setting out for deep space to locate and claim the mythical tenth planet of the Sol System, the legendary Flame Disc, John Preston's fabulous world, beyond the known universe.