Evolution

The latest one showed an asteroid. The pockmarks and scars of millennia in space had been cleverly combined to make a recognizable face. Trevor York. Somehow, the artist had contrived the impersonal stone surface of the asteroid into something ugly and frightening, a clever mockery of Trevor York’s well known fascination with his own looks.

Just to see what reaction it would provoke, Rice had made certain that a reproduction of the painting had made it onto the first screen of the Observer. Somewhere where it was certain to come to York’s attention.

So far, York had made no public response. Rice, however, was sure that it was going to have a place in whatever show York was concocting about Crisium.

There was one other thing about the picture in the corridor. The asteroid was clearly on a collision course with a much larger body in the background: Luna.

Anne Lister sat behind the expansive semicircular desk she used in her secretarial duties for her husband. It was, in feet, considerably larger than her husband’s desk, something that had been fodder for much joking back when she had set up her office in their home. Now, it was simply accepted as a fact of life that she needed multiple terminals to keep her finger on the pulse of the city.

Right now, she was reading through something that the city computer had kicked up to her for resolution. Brows furrowed, she pondered it, then, since it would involve setting a precedent, decided to present the situation to Alan.

She had the computer inquire as to whether he was busy at the moment. He wasn’t. “Alan,” she began, as her image materialized in his office, “I’ve got a problem.”

“What is it, babe?”

“We’ve got a guy who has immigrated from Earth. He applied—well, wrote a letter, since we don’t have a form for it—asking for unemployment compensation.”

Alan rocked back and forth in his seat for a few moments. Finally, he shook his head and sighed. “Anne, make a note on your calendar. As of this date, Luna no longer represents a cutting edge, frontier society. It used to be that we attracted only those who were willing to work—who were aching to work. All they wanted was an opportunity to do their jobs without having their elbows joggled every ten seconds by some busybody bureaucrat. Then came the rank and file workers who were content to earn a steady paycheck.” He eyed his wife. “Mind you, I’m not criticizing them, we need them. As long as they’re productive citizens, my hat’s off to them.”

“Not everyone can be a general,” Anne agreed, “somebody has to be a soldier.”

He nodded. “Exactly. But now it looks as though we’re getting the first of the parasites—the looters who follow your metaphorical army.” He rubbed his face vigorously with his hands, then said, “The application has a spot where they’re supposed to tell us what they intend to do when they get here. I don’t suppose this fellow just up and said he was going to be on the public dole, did he?”

Anne shook her head. “No. He said he had worked at GM, and expected to find a job in manufacturing.”

Alan steepled his fingers and resumed thinking. “Has he even tried to find a job?”

“According to his letter, yes, but he couldn’t find anything he liked. Reading between the lines, I gather that he felt that the jobs he was qualified for were beneath his dignity.”

Her husband’s expression soured. “There’s a lot of that attitude on Earth. Somehow, I find it hard to sympathize. I was raised to pay my bills, come hell or high water. If I had to wash dishes to do so, then so be it.”

“Some people don’t feel that way,” she said. “Some of them want dignity from their work.”

“They’ve got it backwards. Dignity doesn’t come from your job, dignity comes from paying your bills.”

“So what do you want to do about it? Want me to make up a form letter that we can fire off every time we get one of these?”

“Not yet. Let me go talk to him. Let’s hope it’s just a misunderstanding, although my gut tells me otherwise.”

“If we get more than one or two of these people, that will get pretty time consuming.”

“I know. I’m afraid the long term solution will be to check on whether immigrants actually have solid job prospects. Up until now, we’ve only been concerned with whether they had a job skill we could use, and left the job hunting to them.”

“We’d have to hire someone to follow up on the information on their applications,” Anne pointed out.

Grimacing, Alan nodded. “It’s not that governments automatically get bigger, it’s that people demand more services. A government’s size is a reflection of the peoples’ lack of will to do for themselves.” Sighing, he added, “And it looks as though we’re in for a growth spurt.”

Trevor York was falling endlessly, flailing at the air like a slip of paper fluttering in a strong wind. Stark, unreasoning fear brought him up from the depths of sleep. He awoke screaming.

Brigitte started bolt upright in the bed. “What is it, Trev?”