Solar Lottery

FOUR

TED BENTELEY stood by the kitchen door inhaling warm smells of cooking food. The Davis house was pleasant and bright. Al Davis, minus his shoes, was sitting contentedly before the tv set in the living room, gazing earnestly at the ads. His pretty brown-haired wife Laura was preparing dinner.

"If that's protine," Benteley said to her, "it's the best job of adulteration I've smelled."

"We never have protine," Laura answered briskly. "We tried it the first year we were married, but you can taste it no matter how they fix it up. It's terribly costly to buy natural foods, of course, but it's worth it. Protine is for the unks."

"If it wasn't for protine," Al said, overhearing her, "the unks would have starved to death back in the twentieth century. You're always passing out typical layman-type misinformation. Allow me to give you the straight dope."

"Please do," Laura said.

"Protine isn't a natural algae. It's a mutant that started out in culture tanks in the Middle East and gradually crept onto a variety of fresh-water surfaces."

"I know that. When I go into the bathroom in the morning don't I find the darn stuff growing all over the wash basin and the pipes and in the tub and in the—fixture?"

"It also grows over the Great Lakes," Al said scientifically.

"Well, this isn't protine," Laura said to Ted. "This is a real beef roast, real spring potatoes and green peas and white rolls."

"You two are living better than when I last saw you," Benteley said. "What happened?"

A complex look crossed Laura's dainty face. "Didn't you hear? Al jumped a whole class. He beat the Government Quiz; he and I studied together every night after he got home from work."

"I never heard of anybody beating the Quizzes. Was it mentioned on tv?"

"As a matter of fact it was." Laura frowned resentfully. "That awful Sam Oster talked about it the whole length of a program. He's that rabble-rouser who has such a big following among the unks."

"I'm afraid I don't know him," Benteley admitted.

On the tv, glorious ads played back and forth like liquid fire. One after another they rose, hung for an instant, and then dropped away. Ads were the highest art-form; the finest creative talent was at work behind them. Ads combined color, balance, rhythm, and a restless aliveness that pulsed from the screen and into the cozy Davis living room. From hidden hi-fi speakers mounted within the walls random combinations of accompanying sound drifted.

"The Convention," Davis said, indicating the screen. "They're advertising for applicants and giving quite a bonus."

A vortex of foaming light and color-texture lapping across the screen symbolized the Challenge Convention. The billowing mass broke apart, held, and reformed in new combinations. A pattern of unusually excited spheres danced their way across, and the accompanying music rose to a fever pitch.

"What's it saying?" Benteley asked.

"I can switch to the 1-Channel, if you want. Then you'll have it straight."

Laura hurried in with silver and china for the table. "Don't put that 1-Channel on; all the unks watch that. That's why they have it both ways, this for us and the literal for them."

"You're wrong, honey," AI said seriously. "The 1-Channel is for news and factual information. The s-Channel is for pleasure. I enjoy watching it this way, but—" He waved his hand and the circuit switched abruptly. The vivid swirls of color and sound winked out. In their place the placid features of the Westinghouse news announcer appeared. "Here's the same thing."

Laura set the table and returned to the kitchen in a flurry of activity. The living room was friendly and comfortable. One wall was transparent; below the house stretched out the city of Berlin clustered around the Farben Hill, a vast towering center cone, black against the night sky. Bits of cold light drifted and rushed in the gloom: surface cars dancing like yellow sparks in the chill night shadows, disappearing into the vast cone like incandescent moths into the chimney of a cosmic lamp.

"How long have you been in fealty to Verrick?" Benteley asked Al Davis.

Al tore himself away from the tv screen; it was now describing new experiments in C-plus reactors. "What's that, Ted? I guess about three or four years."

"You're satisfied?"

"Sure, why not?" Al gestured around the pleasant, well-furnished living room. "Who wouldn't be satisfied?"

"I'm not talking about this. I had the same thing over at Oiseau-Lyre; most classified people have set-ups like this. I'm talking about Verrick."

Al Davis struggled to catch Benteley's drift. "I never see Verrick. He's been at Batavia, up until today."

"You knew I'd sworn in to Verrick?"

"You told me this afternoon." Davis kindly face beamed up at Benteley, relaxed and untroubled. "I hope that means you'll be moving over here."

"Why?"

Davis blinked. "Well, because then well see more of you and Julie."

"I haven't been living with Julie for six months," Benteley said impatiently. "That's all off. She's on Jupiter as some sort of work-camp official."

"Well, I didn't know. I haven't seen you for a couple of years. I was as surprised as hell to see your face on the ipvic."

"I came over with Verrick and his staff." Benteley's voice hardened with irony. "When Oiseau-Lyre released me I headed directly for Batavia. I wanted to get out of the Hill system once and for all. I went straight to Reese Verrick."

"You did the right thing."

"Verrick tricked me! He was quacked, out of the Directorate completely. I knew somebody was bidding up the Hills, somebody with plenty of funds. I wanted nothing to do with it—and now look." Benteley's resentment increased. "Instead of getting away from it, I'm where it's dirtiest. It's the last place on Earth I wanted to be."

Indignation crept into Davis' tolerant face. "Some of the nicest people I know are Verrick's serfs."

"They're people who don't care how they make their money."

"You want to penalize Verrick because he's a success? He's made this Hill run. Is it his fault nobody else can operate like he can? There's a natural selection and evolution. Those who can't survive fall by the way."

"Verrick fired our research labs."

"Our? Say, you're with Verrick, now." Davis' indignation boiled over. "That's a hell of a way to talk! Verrick is your protector and you're standing here—"

"All right, boys," Laura exclaimed, cheeks flushed with domestic prowess. "Dinner's on the table, and I want you to go get some chairs for us to sit on. Al, you wash your hands before we eat. And put on your shoes."

"Sure, honey," Davis said obediently, getting to his feet

"Can I help?" Benteley asked.

"Just find yourself a chair and sit down. We have real coffee. Do you take cream? I can't remember."

"Yes," Benteley said. "Thanks." He pulled up a couple of chairs and sat down moodily.

"Don't look so sad," Laura said to him. "See what you're getting to eat. Aren't you living with Julie any more? I'll bet you eat out all the time, at restaurants where they serve that awful protine stuff."

Benteley toyed with his knife and fork. "You have a nice place here," he said presently.

"When I saw you last you were living in a Hill dorm. But you weren't married then."

"Remember when you and I were living together?" Laura began cutting the twine that held the rolled-roast together. "That wasn't more than a month, as I remember.".

"A little under a month," Benteley agreed, remembering back. He relaxed somewhat, thawed by the smell of hot food, the bright living room, the pretty woman sitting across from him.

"That's when you were still under fealty to Oiseau-Lyre, before you lost your classification."

Al appeared, sat down, unfolded his napkin, and rubbed his hands together with anticipation. "It sure smells good," he announced. "Let's get going; I'm starved."

While they ate, the tv murmured and spilled out a flickering tide of light into the living room. Benteley listened between conversations, his mind only half on what Laura and Al were saying.

"... Quizmaster Cartwright has announced the dismissal of two hundred Directorate employees," the announcer was saying. "The reason given is b.s.r."

"Bad security risk," Laura murmured, sipping her coffee. "That's what they always say."

The announcer continued:

... Convention plans are booming. Already, hundreds of thousands of applications are flooding the Convention Board and the Westinghouse Hill office. Reese Verrick, the former Quizmaster, has agreed to handle the multiplying technical details in order to set in motion what promises to be the most exciting and spectacular event of the decade...

"You bet," Al said. "Verrick has that Hill under lock. He'll have this thing humming."

"Is old Judge Waring still sitting on the Board?" Laura asked him. "He must be a hundred years old, by now."

"He's still on the Board. He won't resign, not until he's dead. That crusty old fossil! He ought to get out of the way and let somebody younger take over."

"But he knows everything about the Challenge," Laura said. "He's kept it all on a high moral plane. I remember when I was a little girl still in school; that Quizmaster was quacked, that funny one who stuttered. And that good-looking young man got in, that black-haired assassin who made such a wonderful Quizmaster. And old Judge Waring set up the Board and ruled over the Convention like Jehovah in the old Christian myths."

"He has a beard," Benteley said.

"A long white beard."

The tv set had changed announcers. A view of the massive auditorium in which the Convention was being formed swam into focus. Seats were already set up, and the huge platform at which the Board sat in judgment. People milled back and forth; the auditorium boomed and echoed with sounds of furious activity and shouted instructions.

"Just think," Laura said. "All that momentous business going on while we sit here quietly eating our dinner."

"It's a long way off," Al said indifferently.

... Reese Verrick's offer of a million gold dollars has galvanized the Convention proceedings. Statisticians estimate a record number of applications—and they're still pouring in. Everybody is eager to try his hand at the most daring role in the system, the greatest risk and the highest stakes. The eyes of six billion people on nine planets are turned on the Westinghouse Hill tonight. Who will the first assassin be? Out of these many brilliant applicants, representing all classes and Hills, who will be the first to try his hand for the million gold dollars and the applause and acclamation of a whole civilization?

"How about you?" Laura said suddenly to Benteley. "Why don't you put in your application? You don't have an assignment, right now."

"It's out of my line."

Laura laughed. "Make it your line! Al, don't we have that big tape they put out, all the successful assassins of the past, their lives and everything about them? Show it to Ted."

"I've seen it," Benteley said curtly.

"When you were a boy, didn't you dream of growing up to be a successful assassin?"

Laura's brown eyes were dim with nostalgia. "I remember how I hated being a girl because then I couldn't be an assassin when I grew up. I bought a lot of charms, but they didn't turn me into a boy."

Al Davis pushed his empty plate away with a gratified belch. "Can I let out my belt?"

"Sure," Laura said.

Al let out his belt. "That was a good meal, honey. I wouldn't mind eating like that every day."

"You do, practically." Laura finished her coffee and daintily touched her napkin to her lips. "More coffee, Ted?"

... Experts predict the first assassin will have a seventy-thirty chance of destroying Quizmaster Cartwright and winning the million dollar prize put up by Reese Verrick, the previous Quizmaster, quacked less than twenty-four hours ago by an unexpected twitch of the bottle. If the first assassin fails, the dopesters have their money sixty-forty on the second assassin. According to their scratch sheets Cartwright will have better control over his army and telepathic Corps after the initial two days. For the assassin, speed rather than form will count high, especially in the opening phase. During the last lap the situation will be tight because of...

"There's already a lot of private betting," Laura said. She leaned contentedly back, a cigarette between her fingers, and smiled at Benteley. "It's good to have you come by again. You think you'll move your things here to Farben? You could stay with us for awhile, until you find a decent place."

"A lot of places that used to be good are being taken over by unks," Al observed.

"They're moving everywhere," Laura agreed. "Ted, remember that wonderful area near the synthetics research lab? All those new housing units, those green and pink buildings? Unks are living there, and naturally it's all run down and dirty and bad-smelling. It's a disgrace; why don't they sign up for work-camps? That's where they belong, not loafing around here."

Al yawned. "I'm sleepy." He picked a date from the bowl in the center of the table. "A date. What the hell's a date?" He ate it slowly. "Too sweet. What planet's it from? Venus? It tastes like one of those pulpy Venusian fruits."

"It's from Asia Minor," Laura said.

"Here on Earth? Who muted it?"

"Nobody. It's a natural fruit. From a palm tree."

Al shook his head wonderingly. "The infinite diversity of God's creations."

Laura was shocked. "Suppose somebody at work heard you talk like thatl"

"Let them hear me." Al stretched and yawned again. "I don't care."

"They might think you were a Christian."

Benteley got slowly to his feet. "Laura, I have to get going."

Al rose in amazement. "Why?"

"I have to collect my things and get them over here from Oiseau-Lyre."

Al thumped him on the shoulder. "Farben'll transport them. You're one of Verrick's serfs now—remember? Give the Hill traffic office a call and they'll arrange it. No charge."

"I'd rather do it myself," Benteley said.

"Why?" Laura asked, surprised.

"Less things get broken," Benteley answered obliquely. "I'll hire a taxi and load up over the weekend. I don't think he'll want me before Monday."

"I don't know," Al said doubtfully. "You better get your stuff over here as soon as possible. Sometimes Verrick wants a person right now, and when he wants you right now—"

'The hell with Verrick," Benteley said. "I'm taking my time."

Their dazed, shocked faces danced around him as he moved away from the table. His stomach was full of warm well-cooked food, but his mind was thin and empty, a sharp acid rind over—what? He didn't know.

"That's no way to talk," Al said.

"That's the way I feel."

"You know," Al said, "I don't think you're being realistic."

"Maybe not." Benteley found his coat. "Thanks for the meal, Laura. It was terriffic."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not," Benteley answered. "You have a fine little place here. All the comforts and conveniences. I hope you'll both be very happy. I hope your cooking keeps on convincing you, in spite of me."

"It will," Laura said.

The announcer was saying: "... more than ten thousand already, from all parts of Earth. Judge Waring's announcement that the first assassin will be chosen at this session..."

"Tonight!" Al exclaimed. He whistled appreciatively. "Verrick doesn't waste any time." He shook his head, impressed. "That man really moves, Ted. You have to hand it to him."

Benteley crouched down and snapped the tv set off. The rapid procession of sounds and images faded out of existence and he rose to his feet. "You mind?" he said.

"What happened?" Laura faltered. "It went off!"

"I turned it off. I'm tired of hearing that goddamn racket. I'm tired of the Convention and everything about it."

There was an uneasy, unnatural silence.

After a moment Al grinned uncertainly. "How about a shot of booze before you go? It'll relax you."

"I'm relaxed," Benteley said. He crossed over to the transparent wall and stood with his back to Laura and Al, gazing gloomily out at the night and the endless winking procession of lights that moved around Farben Hill. In his mind a similar phantasmagoria of shapes and images swirled; he could turn off the tv and opaque the wall, but he couldn't halt the rapid activity in his mind.

"Well," Laura said finally, to no one in particular, "I guess we don't get to watch the Challenge Convention."

"You'll see review tapes the rest of your life," Al said genially.

"I want to see it now!"

"It'll be awhile, anyhow," Al said, automatically seeking to smooth things out. "They're still testing their equipment"

Laura made a short breathing sound and whirled the dinner table back into the kitchen.

Roaring water leaped in the sink; dishes banged and scraped furiously.

"She's mad," Al observed.

"It's my fault," Benteley said, without conviction.

"She'll get over it. You probably remember. Say, if you want to tell me what's wrong I'm all ears."

What am I supposed to say? Benteley thought futilely. "I went to Batavia expecting to get in on something big," he said. "Something beyond people grabbing for power, struggling to get to the top of the heap over each other's dead bodies. Instead I find myself back here—with that shrill thing yelling at the top of its lungs." He gestured at the tv. "Those ads are like bright shiny sewer-bugs."

Al Davis solemnly extended a chubby finger. "Reese Verrick will be back in the number One spot inside a week. His money picks the assassin. The assassin is under fealty to him. When he kills this Cartwright person the spot returns to Verrick. You're just too damn impatient, that's all. Wait a week, man. It'll be back the way it was—maybe better."

Laura appeared at the doorway. Her rage was gone; now her face was flooded with peevish anxiety. "Al, couldn't we please get the Convention? I can hear the neighbors' set and they're choosing the assassin _right now!_"

"I'll turn it on," Benteley said wearily. "I'm going, anyhow." He squatted down and snapped on the power. The tv set warmed rapidly; as he made his way out onto the front porch, its tinny scream rose in a frenzy behind him. The metallic cheers of thousands rolled out after him, into the chill night darkness.

"The assassin!" the tv set shrieked, as he plunged down the dark path, hands deep in his pockets. "They're handing up his name right now—I'll have it for you in a second." The cheering rose to an orgiastic crescendo; like the rolling waves of the sea, it momentarily blotted the announcer out. "Pellig," the announcer's voice filtered through, rising above the tumult. "By popular acclamation—by the wishes of a planet! The assassin is—Keith Pellig!"