Dream of Victory - Algis Budrys, ebook, Temp
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DREAM OF VICTORYAlgis BudrysPART IFUOSS CRACKED his knuckles and pushed the empty glass across the bar. He took a pullon his cigarette, driving the smoke into his lungs as hard as he could. He exhaled adoughnut-shaped cloud that broke against the bartender's stomach."Want another one, Mister?" the bartender asked.Fuoss bit down hard, enjoying the pressure on his teeth. "I'll take one."The bartender picked up the glass. "I don't think she's coming in tonight.""Who?""Carol. It's a little late for her to be in.""Carol who?""You kidding, Mister?"Fuoss pushed the stub of his cigarette into an ashtray, took out another one and waited for itto light. "I never knew a Carol in my life. You trying to sell me on a friend named Carol?""You know how many of these you've had, Mister?" The bartender held the glass up.Fuoss bit down again. "You keeping tab?""Sure I am. I was just wondering if you knew." The bartender poured a finger of lemon juiceinto his mixer. "You're an android, aren't you?""What's that got to do with it?" Fuoss cracked his knuckles in the opposite direction.The bartender added gin. "Carol's human. Grew up on the block. I remember the first timeshe came in here, with this look on her face daring me to say she wasn't old enough." Thebartender, who was a bulky man, was apparently used to having globules of sweat trembleon his forehead. "Carol's human," he repeated, without raising his glance from the mixer.Fuoss's stool clattered on the floor.The bartender looked up. The door shut loudly. The bartender ducked under the bar and ranto the door. He looked through the glass but couldn't see anything, so he opened the doorand stuck his head outside. A sound of footsteps came from down the street, but the streetlamp in front of the bar cut off his vision.The bartender quirked his mouth up at the corners. He went back inside the bar, set thestool up, and drank the Tom Collins himself.In sleep, the conscious mind--that cohabitant collection of mix-directed clockwork--isquiescent, and the dramatic subconscious is free of its restraints.Seven-thirty.Fuoss's day began. Usually, the shift from subconsciousness back to conscious thought wasso precise that he was able to believe that he never dreamt, but this morning the fatigue ofthe previous day's unusually hard work held him on the borderline.Seven-thirty, then, in the clock's modulated voice, and Fuoss let the end of a snore trickleout of his nostrils, closed his mouth, and scratched a buttock, but was not yet completelyawake.Seven-thirty and a half. Recall the length and complexity of the dream that comes betweenthe first alarm and the subsequent feel of the bedside carpeting under your feet as yougather your pajama bottom back up to your waist. Mohammed knocked a glass from atable, bent, caught it, and dreamed a lifetime in the interval.Fuoss pushed the clock's cutoff and walked to the bathroom, skirting his wife's bed. Heshaved and showered, walking back into the bedroom with his pajamas over his arm. Hewent to the night table between the twin beds, picked up a cigarette, then sat down on hisbed instead of taking fresh underwear out of the bureau and dressing."Stac?"His wife had awakened. She turned her head and looked at him, raising a hand to brush thehair out of her eyes. "You're not getting dressed. What's the matter?"Fuoss widened his eyes and relaxed them, trying to come fully awake. "I don't know," hesaid. "I had this dream just before I woke, and I'll be damned if I can remember it. Guess Ijust sat down for a minute trying to remember it.""Is that all?" Lisa smiled. "Why let a dream bother you?" She stretched her arms at hersides, bending them upward at the elbows. "Kiss me good morning."Fuoss smiled, threw the cigarette into an ashtray, and bent over the bed. "Does sound silly,doesn't it? Can't get the idea out of my head that it's important, though."Lisa raised her lips. Her swollen eyes and mouth were crusted at the corners. Fuoss kissedher absently."Stac! What in the devil's the matter with you this morning?"Fuoss shook his head. "I don't know. It's that damned dream. I haven't felt right since I wokeup. Can't pin it down."Lisa frowned. "Whatever it was, I don't like it. From the way you kissed me, you'd think it wasabout another woman."Fuoss felt a jab of guilt. He got up from Lisa's bed and walked over to the bureau. The tasteof Lisa's unwashed mouth was on his lips, and he yanked at the top drawer."If I knew I wouldn't be bothered about it, would I?" He dressed rapidly. "Do I have to kiss youlike Don Juan every morning?" He went to the night table and picked up his watch and keys."Haven't got time for breakfast, now. I hope Brownfield's wife finally had her kid, so Tom canget back to the office. I'm getting sick of doing his work overtime without getting paid for it."Lisa made an impatient sound, got up and walked toward the bathroom. She slept naked.Fuoss watched her."Arms and legs," he said. "Two of each, perfectly molded, attached with correctsmoothness, and equally smoothly articulated and muscled. Breasts and hips--also two ofeach--and superbly useless for anything but play. All this equipment joined to a sculpturedtorso, and the entire work of the designer's art surmounted by a face with just enoughdeliberate irregularities to make it appealing."Lisa turned, a half-frightened look on her face. "What did you say?"Fuoss smiled with restrained bitterness. "That was just Culture S, Table C Fuoss readingspecification on Culture L, Table S ditto. My wife, by the grace of Section IV, Paragraph 12of the Humanoids Act of 1973, and the General Aniline Company, Humanoids Division.Good morning, Mrs. Mannikin--"Whatever it was that had been fermenting in him suddenly came to a head. "Why the helldon't you buy a hairnet?" he said, and slammed the bedroom door behind him.Fuoss stepped out of the Up chute into the office a few minutes before nine. He went to hisdesk and sat down, staring at the In basket which the file clerks had already filled withfolders and correspondence. He ran a thumb along the edge of a batch of files.Blue Tabs. McMillin. First Brownfield's stuff and now McMillin's, too. There wasn't anythingwrong with Mac's wife. Why should he be doing part of his stuff?He wiped his forearm over his eyes. He'd tried to explain this morning's outburst to himselfduring the drive to the office. It couldn't be the dream. He was tired. Work had been piling upon his desk during the past month, and he'd had to do overtime. Brownfield had been outlately, with his wife's pregnancy developing complications at term. That meant more work tobe done. More reading, more dictation, more interviews. His nerves were strained.He remembered some of the other jobs he'd worked at. Doing rewrites for the Times, forinstance. He'd liked it, been good at it. He'd saved enough from that so the extra money he'dpicked up free-lancing had paid for the destruction and replacement of the unmaturedremainder of Lisa's culture. At that time, the thought of being married to a true individual hadseemed important.After the newspaper business got a little tight, he'd tried his hand at managing a chain store,and when that petered out he'd done any number of other things, until he'd finally landed thisinsurance claim adjusting job. Come to think of it, he'd held a lot of jobs.Guess I'm the restless type, he decided."...and thank you for your kind cooperation," he dictated an hour later. "Rush that out, willyou, Ruthie?"He looked up from the file and saw Brownfield come in."Thank God!" he said. Brownfield was carrying a box of cigars and wearing the smile of anew father. "Look who's here.""Why, it's Mr. Brownfield! He called this morning and said he might be in," the stenographersaid.But they figured I might as well do his work anyway, huh? Fuoss thought. "What's the newson his wife?" he asked."Oh, she's fine. They had a baby boy." Ruth smiled enviously.Brownfield came across the office to his desk. Fuoss got up. "Well, hell, Tom,congratulations!" he said, slapping Brownfield on the back. "Boy, huh? Bet he looks like hismother. Most boys do, I hear.""Little early to tell yet, Stac," Brownfield said happily. "Might be, though. He's got blue eyeslike Marion.""Well, all babies have blue eyes at first," Fuoss said. The thought struck him that youngBrownfield probably resembled nothing so much as he did a slightly boiled marmoset."All babies do?" Brownfield said. "I didn't know that. How come you did?"Meaning "What does an android know about children," huh? You smug son of a bitch. "Don'tknow. Most have read it somewhere, I guess," he said."Guess so. Have a cigar?""Thanks. Say, these are good.""Nothing but the best for the first-born, I always say."Fuoss hid a grimace. "What're you going to call him, Tom--Junior?" he askedunnecessarily."What else? Have to carry on the family names, you know."In a pig's left nostril, I know!Brownfield looked over his desk. "Looks like all my work's been done for me while I wasgone. You do it?""Uh-huh.""Well, boy, I owe you a drink don't I? What say we drop in some place after work? I sureappreciate you doing this for me."Why not?"Sure. I'll see you at five.""Sure thing." Brownfield walked away, the open box of cigars in his hand.Fuoss threw the cigar into the back of his desk drawer and pic...
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