They remind me of a fanatical political group, single-minded, purposeful, with a particular goal in mind, never deviating from the path assigned by the scientists and social statisticians. They rewomen who want to be robots because they think that being robots is going to solve all their problems.
When parthenogenesis came, humanity found that it could survive on a monosexual basis. That meant a drastic change in habits and behaviour. A new kind of neurotic living had to begin, and begin as quickly as possible. So they rounded us up, we men, and kept using us to serve the women they selected, hoping for the one male birth that could save the situation. We were an isolated unit, cut off from the world outside, and the world knew only what the government information services chose to release. We had disappeared, and the world assumed, in time, that man was extinct. The new parthenogentic age could go ahead as planned.
And when, after many years, some of the remaining men grew restless and began to demand their liberty, they split us up. We were dispersed throughout the world, each man assigned to work in conjunction with a particular laboratory, to aid in the search for a living male embryo. That was the last I ever saw of any man. They may be dead, or some may still live. They tell me I’m the last man, and perhaps they tell the others the same? Why? To make us feel privileged? To make us feel helpless? That nothing we may do can matter any more?
Even the natural functions are denied, and have been for years. Science has replaced the concubine with the injection, the light anaesthetic, the glass tubes and the glittering equipment. They take what they want, and in return they provide shelter, food, and electronic toys like television and polythene cakes with automatic winking candles.
What is going on in the world outside? What are the women doing with the civilization that man created? They give me hints and broad outlines, but how much of it is true? Selective science, for instance: the canalizing of research into functional projects. No more unprofitable ventures into high speed flight or rockets into space. The world itself is waiting to be developed. The sciences of atomics and electronics must be applied in the service of humanity and the State. The frontiers of science will only be assailed when the knowledge so gained can be usefully applied for the direct benefit of society of this planet. Science is no longer the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake; it has become an instrument of the State, designed to improve and strengthen the machinery of the State. One more step towards the human anthill, perhaps…
I’m seventy-five today I’m an old man, though I don’t feel a day over sixty. There can’t be long to go for me, and I’ve nothing to lose any more Just to look around, that’s all I ask. To break loose for a while and be free. I keep asking, but they give evasive answers. But I’ve nothing to lose if I force the issue. They can’t kill me while I can still produce what they want for their incubators and test tubes, and even if they do, well, death isn’t so very far away in any case.
I’ll do it. Tonight. Now.
XIV
Exactly what it was he intended to do, Old Gavor would have been hard putto define. There was an urgency in his mind that had to be relieved on a tactical basis, for there was no way of thinking ahead He knew nothing of the building in which he had lived for more years than he cared to remember. His entire world consisted of four air-conditioned, thermostatically heated rooms, comfortably furnished, and the usual toilet accessories. He had never explored beyond the heavy roller door at the end of the corridor. Nor did he know whether his apartment was above or below ground level, for there were no windows to guide him.
Escape, in the first instance, was a simple matter of getting beyond the roller door, which was always kept locked from the outside. It was opened only when one of his attendants entered or left the apartment, at his summons, or to bring him food and drink. The door, which seemed to be electrically operated, would roll back, remain stationary for about four seconds, then quickly close again. That was his only avenue of escape.
His mind pecked at the problem alertly, in a superficial, birdlike way. Ordinarily there could be no chance of his rushing the door as the attendant entered or left, for the women assigned to look after him were strong and well-versed in the art of self-defence The solution to the problem would obviously have to be a violent one.
He picked up a chair, weighing it speculatively in his hands. The thing was made of chrome tube and flexible plastic; it was light, easy to swing, but hard enough to serve as a weapon.
He carried the chair down the short corridor to the roller door, then, leaving it there, returned to his room and pressed a wall button. Immediately he returned to the roller door and picked up the chair, holding it above his head, hands tightly clenched on the chrome tubing of the back.
A brief eternity seemed to pass before the door began to move. Old Gavor took a deep breath and waited. In a moment the door was open and the dark, olive skinned girl was looking at him with startled eyes. He hesitated no longer, but swung the chair downwards with all the force his frail muscles could exert. The sound of the blow was sickening.
One instant the girl was standing there; next instant she was a crumpled shape on the floor.
Dropping the chair, he seized her arms and dragged her into the corridor. Exultation bubbled within him. The girl was unconscious, the door was open, and there was nothing to prevent his escape.
Except the chair. Forgetting about it momentarily in the exertion of the moment, he stepped backwards after moving the girl. His foot struck something, and a hard shape poked into the back of his knees. He went over with a crash, his legs tangled in chrome tube and plastic.
Cursing luridly he pushed himself to his feet, holding an injured shoulder, and threw himself towards the door. He was a fraction too late. Within inches of it he was dismayed to see the gleaming wall of metal glide swiftly across the opening with scarcely a sound.
Angry and frustrated he glared at the door, then beat upon its cold hard surface with his bare hands. There were no indentations, no cavities, no sign of a concealed keyhole. The door was impregnable.
On the other hand, there had to be a way of opening it from the inside. The attendants could do it, though he had never learned how. Perhaps some electronic device, a hidden transmitter concealed in their clothing, transmitting an impulse signal at the touch of a button. The girl was still unconscious, so there was time to find out.
Hurriedly with trembling fingers he patted the brief clothing she wore, but could feel nothing beyond the soft shape of her body underneath. His hands began to linger a little. And then he came across the belt.
It was beneath her dress, apparently clipped round her waist. He could follow the shape of it with his fingers, and it seemed to him to be thicker than a belt might reasonably be expected to be, and on its surface he could feel the protruding discs of buttons.
In triumph he flung back the dress, exposing the lower part of her body. The belt was of some flexible metal, blue-gray in colour, and on either side of the centre clip were four silver push-buttons. Excitement possessed him; he might be old, but he was no fool when it came to the point.
He struggled with the clip to release the belt, but it refused to open. Baffled for a moment he stared at it, then realized abruptly that he was wasting time. All that was necessary was to press the right button, and the door would open — but which button?