Keith Laumer - Body Builders.pdf - Keith Laumer - widez2

THE BODY BUILDERS

He was a big bruiser in a Gendye Mark Seven Sullivan, the luxury model

with the nine-point sensory system, the highest-priced Grin-U-Matic facial

expression attachment on the market and genuine human hair, mustache

and all.

He came through the dining room entry like Genghis Kahn invading a Swiss

convent. If there'd been a door in his way he'd have kicked it down. The

two lads walking behind him-an old but tough-looking utility model Liston

and a fairly new Wayne-kept their hands in their pockets and flicked their

eyes over the room like buggy whips. The head waiter popped out with a

stock of big purple menus, but the Sullivan went right past him, headed

across toward my table like a field marshal leading a victory parade.

Lorena was with me that night, looking classy in a flossed-up Dietrich that

must have set her back a month's salary. She was in her usual mood for the

usual reason: she wanted to give up her job at the Cent-Prog and sign a

five-year marriage contract with me. The idea left me cold as an Eskimo's

tombstone. In the first place, at the rate she burned creds, I'd have to

creak around in a secondhand Lionel with about thirty percent sensory

coverage and an undersized power core; and in the second, I was still

carrying the torch for Julie. Sure, Julie had nutty ideas about Servos.

According to her, having a nice wardrobe of specialized outfits for all

occasions was one step below cannibalism.

"You and that closet full of zombies!" she used to shake her finger under

my nose. "How could a girl possibly marry you and never know what face

she'd see when she woke up in the morning!"

She was exaggerating, but that was the way those Organo-Republicans are.

No logic in 'em. After all, doesn't it make sense to keep your organic body

on file in the Municipal Vaults, safe out of the weather, and let a

comfortable, late-model Servo do your walking and talking? Our

grandparents found out it was a lot safer and easier to sit in front of the TV

screen with feely and smelly attachments than to be out bumping heads

with a crowd. It wasn't long after that that they developed the contact

screens to fit your eyeballs, and the plug-in audio, so you began to get the

real feel of audience participation. Then, with the big improvements in

miniaturization and the new tight-channel transmitters, you could have your

own private man-on-the-street pickup. It could roam, seeing the sights,

while you racked out on the sofa.

Of course, with folks spending so much time flat on their backs, the Public

Health boys had to come up with gear to keep the organic body in shape.

For a while, people made it with part-time exercise and home model

massage and feeding racks, but it wasn't long before they set up the

Central File system.

Heck, the government already had everything about you on file, from your

birth certificate to your fingerprints. Why not go the whole hog and file the

body too?

* * *

Of course, nobody had expected what would happen when the quality of the

sensory pickups and playbacks got as good as they did. I mean the bit the

eggheads call "personality gestalt transfer." But it figured. A guy always

had the feeling that his consciousness was sitting somewhere back of his

eyes; so when the lids were linked by direct hookup to the Servo, and all

the other senses tied in-all of a sudden, you were there. The brain was

back in Files, doped to the hairline, but you-the thing you call a mind-was

there, inside the Servo, living it up.

And with that kind of identification, the old type utilitarian models went out

of style, fast. People wanted Servos that expressed the real inner man-the

guy you should have been. With everybody as big and tough as they

wanted to be, depending on the down payment they could handle, nobody

wanted to take any guff off anybody. In the old days, a fellow had to settle

for a little fender-bending; now you could hang one on the other guy,

direct. Law Cent had to set up a code to cover the problem, and now when

some bird insulted you or crowded you off the Fastwalk, you slugged it out

with a Monitor watching.

Julie claimed it was all a bunch of nonsense; that the two Servos pounding

each other didn't prove anything. She could never see that with perfect

linkage, you were the Servo. Like now: The waiter had just put a plate of

consomme au beurre blanc in front of me, and with my high-priced

Yum-gum palate accessory, I'd get the same high-class taste thrills as if

the soup was being shoved down my Org's mouth in person. It was a

special mixture, naturally, that lubricated my main swivel and supplied

some chemicals to my glandular analogs. But the flavor was there.

And meanwhile, the old body was doing swell on a nutrient-drip into the

femoral artery. So it's a little artificial maybe-but what about the Orggies,

riding around in custom-built cars that are nothing but substitute

personalities, wearing padded shoulders, contact lenses, hearing aids, false

teeth, cosmetics, elevator shoes, rugs to cover their bald domes. If you're

going to wear false eyelashes, why not false eyes? Instead of a nose bob,

why not bob the whole face? At least a fellow wearing a Servo is honest

about it, which is more than you can say for an Orggie doll in a foam-rubber

bra-not that Julie needed any help in that department.

I dipped my big silver spoon in and had the first sip just under my nose

when the Sullivan slammed my arm with his hip going past. I got the soup

square in the right eye. While I was still clicking the eyelid, trying to clear

the lens, the Liston jarred my shoulder hard enough to rattle my master

solenoid.

Normally, I'm a pretty even-tempered guy. It's my theory that the way to

keep a neurotronic system in shape is to hold the glandular inputs to a

minimum. But, what with the big event coming up that night, and Lorena

riding me hard on the joys of contract life, I'd had a hard day. I hopped up,

overrode the eye-blink reflex, made a long reach and hooked a finger in the

Liston's collar going away.

"Hold it right there, stumblebum!" I gave the collar a flick to spin him

around.

He didn't spin. Instead, my elbow joint made a noise like a roller skate

hitting loose gravel; the jerk almost flipped me right on my face.

The Liston did a slow turn, like a ten-ton crane rig, looked me over with a

pair of yellow eyes that were as friendly as gun barrels. A low rumbling

sound came out of him. I was a little shook but mad enough not to let it

bother me.

"Let's have that license number," I barked at him. "There'll be a bill for the

eye and another one for a chassis checkup!"

The Wayne had turned, too, and was beetling his brows at me. The big

shot Sullivan pushed between the two of them, looked me over like I was

something he'd found curled up in a doorway.

"Maybe you better kind of do a fade, Jasper," he boomed loud enough for

everybody in the restaurant to hear. "My boys got no sense of humor."

I had my mouth open for my next mistake when Lorena beat me to it:

"Tell the big boob to get lost, Barney; he's interrupting what I was saying

to you."

The Sullivan rolled an eye at her, showing off his independent suspension.

"Shut your yap, sister," he said.

That did it. I slid my left foot forward, led with a straight left to the power

pack, then uppercut him with everything I was able to muster.

My right arm went dead to the shoulder. The Sullivan was still standing

there, looking at me. I was staring down at my own fist, dangling at my

side. Then it dawned on me what was wrong.

For the moment, I'd forgotten I was wearing a light sport-model body.

Gully Fishbein, my business manager, Servo-therapist, drinking buddy,

arena trainer and substitute old-maid aunt had warned me I might pull a

stunt like this some day. He was a Single-Servo Socialist himself, and in

addition to his political convictions, he'd put a lot of time and effort into

building me up as the fastest man with a net and mace in show business.

He had an investment to protect.

"I'm warning you, Barney," he used to shove an untrimmed hangnail under

my nose and yell. "One day you're gonna get your reflexes crossed and miss

your step on the Fastwalk-or gauge a close one like you was wearing your

Astaire and bust the neck of that Carnera you wasted all that jack on. And

then where'll you be, hah?"

"So I lose a hulk," I'd come back. "So what? I've got a closet full of spares."

"Yeah? And what if it's a total? You ever heard what can happen to your

mind when the connection's busted-and I do mean busted-like that?"

"I wake up back in my Org body; so what?"

"Maybe," Gully would shake his head and look like a guy with dangerous

secrets. "And maybe not . . . "

* * *

While I was thinking all this, the Sullivan was getting his money's worth

out of the Grin-U-Matic. He nodded and rocked back on his heels, taking his

time with me. The talk had died out at the tables around us. Everybody was

catching an ear full.

"A wisey," the Sullivan says, loud. "What's the matter, Cheapie, tired of life

outside a repair depot?"

"What do you mean, 'Cheapie'?" I said, just to give my Adam's apple a

workout. "This Arcaro cost me plenty . . . and this goon of yours has jarred

my contacts out of line. Just spring for a checkup and I'll agree to forget

the whole thing."

"Yeah." He was still showing me the expensive grin. "I'll bet you will,

pint-size." He cocked an eye at the Wayne. "Now, let's see, Nixie, under

the traffic code, I got a couple courses of action, right?"

"Cream duh pansy and let's shake an ankle, Boss. I'm hungry." Nixie folded

a fist like a forty-pound stake mallet and moved in to demonstrate his idea.

"Nah." The Sullivan stopped him with the back of his hand against his

starched shirt front. "The guy pops me first, right? He wants action. So I

give him action. Booney." He snapped his fingers and the Liston thumbed a

shirt stud.

"For the record," the Sullivan said in a businesslike voice. "Notice of

Demand for Satisfaction, with provocation, under Section 991-b, Granyauck

6-78." I heard the whir and click as the recorder built into the Liston's

thorax took it down and transmitted it to Law Central.

All of a sudden my mouth was dry.

Sometimes those Servo designers got a little too realistic. I tapped a

switch in my lower right premolar to cut out the panic-reaction circuit. I'd

been all set for a clip on the jaw, an event that wouldn't be too good for

the Arcaro, but nothing a little claim to Law Cent wouldn't fix up. But now it

was dawning like sunrise over Mandalay that Big Boy had eased me into a

spot-or that I'd jumped into it, mouth first. I'd hit him. And the fact that

he'd put my consomme in my eye wouldn't count-not to Law Cent. He had

the right to call me out-a full-scale Servo-to-Servo match-and the choice of

weapons, ground, time, everything was his.

* * *

"Tell the manager to clear floor number three," the Sullivan rapped out to

the Wayne. "My favorite ground." He winked at Lorena. "Nine kills there,

baby. My lucky spot."

"Whatever you say," I felt myself talking too fast. "I'll be back here in an

hour, raring to go."

"Nix, Cheapie. The time is now. Come as you are; I ain't formal."

"Why, you can't do that," Lorena announced. Her voice tapes were off key, I

noticed; she had a kind of shrill, whiney tone. "Barney's only wearing that

little old Arcaro!"

"See me after, doll," the Sullivan cut her off. "I like your style." He jerked

his head at the Wayne. "I'll take this clown bare-knuck, Nixie, Naples

rules." He turned away, flexing the oversized arms that were an optional

extra with the late-model Gendyes. Lorena popped to her feet, gave me the

dirtiest look the Dietrich could handle.

"You and that crummy Arcaro." She stuck it in me like a knife. "I wanted

you to get a Flynn, with the-"

"Spare me the technical specs, kid," I growled. I was getting the full picture

of what I'd been suckered into. The caper with the soup hadn't been any

accident. The timing was perfect; I had an idea the Liston was wired a lot

better than he looked. Somebody with heavy credits riding on that night's

bout was behind it; somebody with enough at stake to buy all the

muscle-Servos he needed to pound me into a set of loose nerve ends

waving around like worms in a bait can. Busting the Arcaro into a pile of

scrap metal and plastic wouldn't hurt my Org physically-but the trauma to

my personality, riding the Servo, would be for real. It took steel nerve,

cast-iron confidence, razor-edge reflexes and a solid killer's instinct to

survive in the arena. After all, anybody could lay out for a Gargantua Servo,

if that was all it took; the timing, and pace, and ringcraft that made me a

winner couldn't survive having a body pounded to rubble around me. I'd be

lucky if I ever recovered enough to hold a coffee cup one-handed.

The Floor Manager arrived, looking indignant; nobody had called him to

okay the fracas. He looked at me, started to wave me off, then did a

double take.

"This is the aggressor party?" The eyebrows on his Menjou crawled up into

his hairline.

"That's right," I give it to him fast and snappy. "The bum insulted my

lady-friend. Besides which, I don't like his soup-strainer. After I break his

rib cage down to chopsticks, I'm going to cut half of it off and give it to the

pup to play with." After all, if I was going to get pulverized, I might as well

do it in style.

The Sullivan growled.

"You can talk better than that." I pushed up close to him; my nose was on

a level with the diamond stick-pin in his paisley foulard. "What's your

name, Big Stuff? Let's have that registration."

"None of your pidgin, Wisey." He had a finger all ready to poke at me, saw

the Monitor coming up ready to quote rules, used it to scratch his ear

instead. The big square fingernail shredded plastic off the lobe; he was a

little more nervous than he acted. That cinched it: he knew who I

was-Barney Ramm, light-heavy champ in the armed singles.

Keith Laumer - Body Builders.pdf

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