Split Infinity

“You dare not appear in a public dining hall!”  Sheen said, alarmed. “All food machines are monitored, and your ID may have been circulated. It does not have to be a police warrant; the anonymous Citizen may merely have a routine location-check on you, that will not arouse suspicion.”

“True. How about your ID? They wouldn’t bother putting a search on a machine, and you aren’t registered as a serf. You are truly anonymous.”

“That is so. I can get you food, if I go to a unit with no flesh-sensing node. I will have to eat it myself, then regurgitate it for you.”

Stile quailed, but knew it to be the best course. The food would be sanitary, despite appearances. Since food was freely available all over Proton, a serf carrying it away from the dispenser would arouse suspicion —the last thing they wanted. “Make it something that won’t change much, like nutro-pudding.”

She parked him in a toolshed and went to forage for food. All the fundamental necessities of life were free, in this society. Tenure, not economics, was the governing force. This was another reason few serfs wanted to leave; once acclimatized to this type of security, a per-son could have trouble adjusting to the outside galaxy.

Soon she returned. She had no bowl or spoon, as these too would have been suspicious. She had had to use them to eat on the dispenser premises, then put them into the cleaning system. “Hold out your hands,” she said.

Stile cupped his hands. She leaned over and heaved out a double handful of yellow pudding. It was warm and slippery and so exactly like vomit that his stomach recoiled. But Stile had trained for eating contests too, including the obnoxious ones; it was all part of the Game. Nutro-food could be formed into the likeness of almost anything, including animal droppings or lubricating oil. He pretended this was a Game—which in its way it was—and slurped up his pudding. It was actually quite good. Then he found a work-area relief chamber and got cleaned up.

“An alarm has been sprung,” a machine voice murmured as the toilet flushed.

Stile moved out in a hurry. He knew that the anonymous Citizen had put a private survey squad on the project; now that they had Stile’s scent, the execution squad would be dispatched. That squad would be swift and effective, hesitating only to make sure Stile’s demise seemed accidental, so as not to arouse suspicion.  Citizens seldom liked to advertise their little indiscretions. That meant he could anticipate subtle but deadly threats to his welfare. Sheen would try to protect him, of course—but a smart execution squad would take that into consideration. It would be foolish to stand and wait for the attempt.

“Let’s lose ourselves in a crowd,” Stile suggested.

“There’s no surer way to get lost than that.”

“Several objections,” Sheen said. “You can’t stay in a crowd indefinitely; the others all have places to go, and you don’t; your continued presence in the halls will become evident to the routine crowd-flow monitors, and suspicious. Also, you will tire; you must have rest and sleep periodically. And your enemy agents can lose themselves in the crowd, and attack you covertly from that concealment. Now that the hunt is on, a throng is not safe at all.”

“You’re too damn logical,” Stile grumped.

“Oh, Stile—I’m afraid for you!” she exclaimed.

“That’s not a bad approximation of the relevant attitude.”

“I wasn’t acting. I love you.”

“You’re too damn emotional.”

She grabbed him and kissed him passionately. “I know you can’t love me,” she said. “You’ve seen me as I am, and I feel your withdrawal. But oh, I exist to guard you from harm, and I am slowly failing to do that, and in this week while you need me most—isn’t that somewhere close to an approximation of human love?”

They were in a machine-access conduit, alone. Stile embraced her, though what she said was true. He could not love a nonliving thing. But he was grateful to her, and did like her. It was indeed possible to approximate the emotion she craved. “This week,” he agreed.

His hands slid down her smooth body, but she drew back. “There’s nothing I’d like better,” she whispered.

“But there is murder on your trail, and I must keep you from it. We must get you to some safe place. Then—“

“You’re too damn practical.” But he wondered, now, if a living girl in Sheen’s likeness were substituted for her, would he really know the difference? To speak readiness while withdrawing—that was often woman’s way. But he let her go and moved out again. After all, he was withdrawing from her much more than she was withdrawing from him.

“I think we can hide you in—“

“Don’t say it,” he cautioned her. “The walls have monitors. Just take me there—by a roundabout route, so we can lose the pursuit.”

“In a reasonably short time,” she finished.

“Oh. I thought you were going to say—oh, never mind. Take me to your hideout.”