T. Bass: Half Past Human

A lonely Huntercraft searched the foothills for the lost hunter. It droned back and forth all through the night. The next morning it returned to Garage empty-seated.

The robed seer carried Ball into the circle of keening coweyes. Placing his hand on the dead child, he chanted: “The hunter’s arrow has locked the little one’s DNA-soul in limbo. It must be freed for Olga’s return, so she can carry it from this accursed world. You must free the DNA-soul-gene by another birth.”

Wailing ceased. The naked aborigines took up the chant. “Free the gene-soul for Olga’s return—mate, mate, procreate—multiply—propagate—mate, mate.”

The wide garage doors sphinctered the craft inside. A flash of bright morning sun glinted about the work area momentarily blinding young Val—monitor-on-duty. He shielded his eyes with his hands. The craft settled down and quieted. Dust clouds scattered around the room. Coughing, a grimy face appeared under one of the dismantled chassis.

“Who is back?” gasped the face. It belonged to Tinker, a working neuter.

Val blinked and squinted at the craft’s name.

“Bird Dog.”

Tinker scrambled out from under the chassis in a clutter of tools. “Bird Dog? He is a whole day overdue. What about the hunters?”

Val checked the roster. “There was only one. Baserga—a CD seven. It was supposed to be a routine patrol over Mount Tabulum. But he didn’t come back.”

Tinker wiped oil from his hands and approached Bird Dog sympathetically. Lifting dust covers he checked webs of neurocircuitry. Walking around to the anterior sensors, he took out his tools and began to detach the larger central eye.

“Poor old meck,” he said as he worked. “No wonder you keep losing your hunters. You can hardly see. I’ll take your big eye to my quarters and pump the vacuum back down to ten-to-the-minus-six torr. Put in a new EM retina. That should fix you up fine.” He lifted out the optic and examined the socket. Contacts glinted. He put on the dust cap.

“Minus six?” said Val. “Our lines only go down to a minus three.”

Tinker put the meck eye on the workbench with a pile of other loose parts. “I built my own diffusion pump a couple years ago—HV oil, sputtering unit, Christmas tree—brings it down to minus five. Use a cold trap to move it another decimal place.”

“Very handy,” said Val. “We’ve had sensors on order all along—but deliveries are way behind.”

“I just rebuild the coarse ones. All they usually need are retinas and lenses. With the pump it is easy to rebuild them.”

Val followed Tinker around, handing him tools and asking questions. Huntercraft were his friends. He was happy to see them responding to Tinker’s skills. Efficiency was bound to improve.

At eleven hundred hours old Walter wheezed into HC and relieved Val. Tools and defective parts were sack-loaded.

“Want me to help you with the sacks? I’d like to see your cubicle work-area,” offered Val.

Tinker shrugged and nodded.

The trip through the hot crowded tubeways and their long climb upspiral wilted Val’s tunic. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he set down his load and glanced around Tinker’s quarters. There were three small cubicles and one larger family room—all cluttered with tinkering gear. There were Agromeck heads staring at them with wide, empty sockets. Dispenser brain boxes, tools, communicators, sensors and viewscreens were piled everywhere.

“There’s room for a family-7 here,” said Val.

“I’m pretty high on the spiral—far from the shaft base facilities. Not much demand for high quarters—and my repair work justifies increasing my quarters-basic.”

Val nodded appreciatively. A rebuilt dispenser stood by Tinker’s small cot. Val touched the dial and a small token food bar dropped out.

“Built it myself,” explained Tinker proudly. “Of course it isn’t an authorized model, but it does give me someone to talk to—a class thirteen brain. But, like my refresher, it can’t deliver anything unless the pressure reaches this level. That seldom happens these days—so I stock it with a few little staples I carry up myself. I have to go to shaft base for most things.”

Val spoke to the dispenser. It answered politely and offered him a menu of snacks. Its screen listed current Fun & Games. He shook his head and moved on down a busy-looking workbench. He saw a five-foot-high, three-foot-diameter black drum at the end of the room. It stood on thick insulating blocks and a bundle of wires trailed out of a length of flexi-cable at the center of the top. When he approached it, Tinker waved him away.

“Careful. I’ve been experimenting with a larger capacitor—to run my tools when the power is down. It is probably well charged now, and my insulation material isn’t the best. I try to stay at least six feet away from it to be safe.”

Val marveled at Tinker’s ingenuity. The drum looked very powerful, almost ominous. He gave it a wide berth and walked into the next cubicle. More electronic gear. Heavy cables led to a focusing antenna. Charts and maps covered the walls.

“Listening to Huntercraft and Agromecks,” explained Tinker.

Val put his nose close to one of the maps and looked for fine details he was familiar with. “Very accurate.”

“Interesting hobby,” said Tinker.

The dispenser in the other room began to chatter and print out a flimsy. Tinker went to read it while Val fingered the thickly padded earphones.

“It’s a birth permit—for me,” shouted Tinker.

“That’s no surprise,” smiled Val. “Big ES just recognizes your talents. We can always use more Tinkers.”

Tinker returned with a long face. “But it is a class three—budchild with human-incubator-of-choice. I live alone.”

“So? Don’t you have anyone who would carry for you?”

“No,” said Tinker, irritated. “Who’d carry for free?”

Val nodded. “I know what you mean. None of the polarized females seem to want to go gravid for a class three unless—unless they feel something personal for the budparent. Don’t you have any friends with uteri?”

Tinker shook his head. “Live alone. Simpler that way. I do my job—a good one too. Why would the Big ES want to upset everything? I’m not even polarized.”

Val soothed: “I got partially polarized—needed the shoulders for archery—Sagittarius, you know. It wasn’t too bad. I have my shoulders now. Also have to depilate weekly, but that isn’t too bad. Made my temper a bit sharper. I’d hate to see what complete polarization would do to me—but if Big ES ordered it, I’d comply. Good Citizen that I am.”

For a neut, Tinker’s personality was already a bit caustic.

“Not me,” he frowned. “I don’t want to see my output drop. I’m obedient, but anyone can see that I’m much more efficient living alone. A family-3 would clutter up my work area.”

Val understood. His cubicle was private—family-1.

“You could always try applying for a variance. Embryo might be able to change it to a class one. Let the meck uterus carry,” suggested Val. “Go down right now.”

The Embryo clerk only glanced at the flimsy for a second and shook his head.

“Sorry, Tinker. It has to stay a class three. All our meck uteri are full and the budget is tight. Your budchild will have to come along on schedule. We must think of the future generations. They’ll need your skills. Now, be a Good Citizen and find a female to carry it.”

“I have no female.”

“No one appeals to you?” asked the clerk checking Tinker’s file. “Your profile says—”

“I like everyone,” interrupted Tinker. “But I’m not even polarized. I’m not sexually attracted to any—”

“There’s no sex involved in a class three.”