This Perfect Day

"Yes, yes, we're free of things," Chip said, "but we're not free to do things. Don't you see that, Bob? Being 'free of really has nothing to do with being free at all." Bob frowned. "Being free to do what?" he said.

They stepped off the escalator and started around toward the next one. "To choose our own classifications," Chip said, "to have children when we want, to go where we want and do what we want, to refuse treatments if we want..." Bob said nothing.

They stepped onto the next escalator. "Treatments really do dull us, Bob," Chip said. "I know that from my own experience. There are things in them that 'make us humble, make us good'—like in the rhyme, you know? I've been undertreated for half a year now"—the second chime sounded—"and I'm more awake and alive than I've ever been. I think more clearly and feel more deeply. I fuck four or five times a week, would you believe that?"

"No," Bob said, looking at his telecomp riding on the handrail.

"It's true," Chip said. "You're more sure than ever that I'm sick now, aren't you. Love of Family, I'm not. There are others like me, thousands, maybe millions. There are islands all over the world, there may be cities on the mainland too"—they were walking around to the next escalator—"where people live in true freedom. I've got a list of the islands right here in my pocket. They're not on maps because Uni doesn't want us to know about them, because they're defended against the Family and the people there won't submit to being treated. Now, you want to help me, don't you? To really help me?"

They stepped onto the next escalator. Bob looked grievingly at him. "Christ and Wei," he said, "can you doubt it, brother?"

"All right, then," Chip said, "this is what I'd like you to do for me: when we get to the treatment room tell Uni that I'm okay, that I fell asleep in the lounge the way I told you. Don't input anything about my not touching scanners or the way I made up the toothache. Let me get just the treatment I would have got yesterday, all right?"

"And that would be helping you?" Bob said. "Yes, it would," Chip said. "I know you don't think so, but I ask you as my brother and my friend to—to respect what I think and feel. I'll get away to one of these islands somehow and I won't harm the Family in any way. What the Family has given me, I've given back to it in the work I've done, and I didn't ask for it in the first place, and I had no choice about accepting it." They walked around to the next escalator. "All right," Bob said when they were riding down, "I listened to you, Li; now you listen to me" His hand above Chip's elbow tightened slightly. "You're very, very sick," he said, "and it's entirely my fault and I feel miserable about it. There are no islands that aren't on maps; and treatments don't dull us; and if we had the kind of 'freedom' you're thinking about we'd have disorder and overpopulation and want and crime and war. Yes, I'm going to help you, brother. I'm going to tell Uni everything, and you'll be cured and you'll thank me."

They walked around to the next escalator and stepped onto it. Third floor—Medicenter, the sign at the bottom said. A red-cross-coveralled member riding toward them on the up escalator smiled and said, "Good morning, Bob." Bob nodded to him. Chip said, "I don't want to be cured."

"That's proof that you need to be," Bob said. "Relax and trust me, Li. No, why the hate should you? Trust Uni, then; will you do that? Trust the members who programmed Uni." After a moment Chip said, "All right, I will."

"I feel awful," Bob said, and Chip turned to him and struck away his hand. Bob looked at him, startled, and Chip put both hands at Bob's back and swept him forward. Turning with the movement, he grasped the handrail—hearing Bob tumble, his telecomp clatter—and climbed out onto the up-moving central incline. It wasn't moving once he was on it; he crept sideways, clinging with fingers and knees to metal ridges; crept sideways to the upescalator handrail, caught it, and flung himself over and down into the sharp-staired trench of humming metal. He got quickly to his feet—"Stop him!" Bob shouted below—and ran up the upgoing steps taking two in each stride. The red-crossed member at the top, off the escalator, turned. "What are you—" and Chip took him by the shoulders—elderly wide-eyed member—and swung him aside and pushed him away.

He ran down the hallway. "Stop him!" someone shouted, and other members: "Catch that member!"

"He's sick; stop him!"

Ahead was the dining hall, members on line turning to look. He shouted, "Stop that member!" running at them and pointing; "Stop him!" and ran past them. "Sick member in there!" he said, pushing past the ones at the doorway, past the scanner. "Needs help in there! Quickly!"