Ernest Hill - Atrophy

“Cats!” he said, in a moment of inspiration.

To his surprise, the red light transfused into green. It glowed brightly.

“Go ahead!”

“Cats” was as good a subject as any. Simple really.

“A cat,” he said, “is a small furry creature with four legs, a head at one end and a tail at the other.”

“Phit! Phit! Phit!”

“What is it now!” He depressed the “Correction” button. How many corrections was this? How many did IT allow? He had forgotten.

“Description is correct, but mode of expression borders on to the facetious. Generic term for four-legged creatures required.”

“Quadrupeds!”

The green light glowed brightly. He was pleased that IT approved. Must do better.

“A cat is a quadruped, furry and with a tail. It catches mice.”

The green light did not waver. What else did cats do?

“It drinks milk and sleeps by the fire.”

“Phit! Phit! Phit!”

“Bother!” He depressed the button.

“A cat cannot drink milk while it is asleep by the fire. Define the intervals!”

“When it is hungry it feeds. When it is thirsty it drinks milk. It sleeps a great deal when it is neither hungry nor thirsty.”

Green. Who would have thought that there was so much to think about cats? But was there enough to say? Barely twenty seconds had elapsed and the thought process must last for ten minutes to qualify for the “completion” stamp, Bra with Approval. What else?

“They are cuddly things.” The green was less bright. Probably the mode of expression had earned distaste. Was there a better word for “cuddly”? He wanted IT to think well of him. Quite apart from the bonus.

“They accept affection!” Much brighter.

“The ancient Egyptians worshipped them as gods.” Interruption.

“All cats, or some cats?”

“Tabbies, I think.” Green. Twenty-five per cent Approval.

“Cats were originally wild. They lived by hunting. They were fierce. Modern cats have a much better life.”

“Phit! Phit! Phit!”

“Why?”

IT was being really cantankerous today. Just when he was getting into his stride and really thinking about cats IT interrupted him with this unnecessary interrogative. “Why? Well, why did they have a better life?”

“They are happier,” he said.

“Why?”

Must avoid expletives. Must avoid non-Approval. Argue with IT, by all means but never let IT rile you. That was emotional disturbance and non-approved.

“A wild cat was sometimes hungry. It hunted in all weathers, in rain and snow, to bring back to its litter raw, uncooked game, mice and moor-hen chicks and moles. A modern cat sits by the warm-air vent and has good processed food fed to it.”

“Well?” IT asked.

“So the modern cat is happier.”

“Phit! Phit! Phit!”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, plaintively.

“Think!” IT ordered.

His thought-train had reached a dead end. Of course it was happier if things were done for it. It was self-evident. Why do when one can have done? True? Wasn’t it? Stick to the formula. If in doubt, dismiss preconceived ideas from the mind and live in the thought train. It said so in the instructions. Get inside your subject. Imagine yourself a cat.

“A cat is a hunter. It is happier hunting!”

That was it. Green light glowing. Of course. Odd that to do should be more happiness provoking than to be done to.

“In the wild state, it felt pleasure and satisfaction in the achievement of killing and feeding. In the modern state it sleeps. Why? Because it is bored.”

An electronic note. Spring ! IT-Approval. Pleasure and satisfaction in achievement. A stamped card. Ninety-seven cards and 3 Approvals. He felt like a hunting cat.

“Meryl! Meryl! I’ve got an Approval! ”

“About time too!”

If only she had shared his elation, lived with him, thought with him. If only she had said “That was good, Elvin!” Why should she? It wasn’t much really. Nothing to hoist a flag about. Just 3 Approvals in a year.

“I wish,” he thought, “I wish she would help me.”

The week-end passed slowly. One ate. One drank. One went to the Sensories. A mildly erotic adventure story set among potted palms with a south sea island back-cloth. The sensory fear of the hunted, bullets whining down the companionway, cold water splash of a ship-wreck, tired hands blistered on the oars. The salty, warm breath of the south seas’ sun-ray and brine-exuder. Meryl had hardly spoken as they hovered to the doors, found their seats and set the suction pads tingling around their navels. His soft, white fingers curled around the image of the oar, grasping, pulling in time to the back-bending of the seamen before and behind. Splash! Tug! Out! Heave!

Oddly enough, as the torrid kiss of palm-filtered moonlight enchantment was answered by the trembling soft lip parting of desire’s response, he was conscious of a mental rejection. Rejection, not of satiation, addiction, boredom, but a strange dissatisfaction with subjectivity and a desire to do. To tear off the pads and clasp Meryl to him, then and there. Useless, of course. Her lips would not part and respond and tremble with a warm quiver of fulsome surrender. They would freeze into a thin line of dry, coriaceous rejection. Better far the subjective. The warm wind from the sea rippling the filmy texture of the diaphanous sari-like garment slipping from the south-sea shoulder. The lash of the southern moon on a coruscating safety-pin. He slipped back into subjection.

Thursday. Friday. The buzz of the sexometer in the early hours. Co-incidental with the cyclic rhythms. Electronics infallible. The maker’s guarantee was proof incontrovertible of infallibility. There was no other proof. The inert, submissive, unresponsive compliance of the body gave no indication of its rhythm apices. Meryl yawned.

He was almost glad when it was again Monday. Three sessions with IT and 2 more IT-Approvals over the weekend had elated him with a half-formed wish to do. Even the brain rhythm twiddle round the starter relay, three-beat-four, was action. The motors hummed, the Aeolus 125 rose on its cushion of dust-laying mist ejection and swept down the wide service road into the arterial air-stream. In ten minutes he was parked on the third tier of the No. 19 hangar and was gliding through the travelator tunnel into No. 1 control. Work again. An anxiety surge. A tranquillizer. Why? There was no cause for concern. The control looked the same as ever. Little lights flashing. Batteries of buttons twinkling in the fluorescent lighting. Igor yawning and ready to go. Amphetamine mist emission.

“Morning,” he said. An attempt at animation. Igor’s dull eyes met his for a moment, uncomprehending. Opaque. He nodded slightly. Put on his hat. Tossed back a stimulator, collected his iron ration dispenser and disappeared, drooping like a tired peony, down the travelator. Elvin took his place at the panels. The two lines of lights flickering on the semi-circular half cartridge from arm length left to arm length right and arm length above and below.

A 1,2,3,4. A 4,5,6,7. A 11,10,9,8. Miss one. A 19,18,17. Bs synchronous. 1005 hours. They should reverse in a moment or two. A 4,3,2,1. An inspiration to alertness. Bs still synchronous thank goodness. A 16,17,18,19. A 2,3.4.

Where was A 1? A 1 had not functioned. A red light over A 1. Reactor chamber. Reactor wild. Check Foreman informed. Check reactor doors closed — A 2. Hose nozzles functioning. Alarm. Fire brigade. Radiation disposal squad. Military. Police. Defence organizations alerted. He glanced at the Foreman. All under control. The “Foreman Activated” light glowing. All systems responding. Alert! The videophone buzzed. Waldorf, the fire chief, of course.