This Perfect Day

The outstretched hand was normal-colored and youthful. Chip took it (I'm going mad, he thought), and it gripped his hand strongly, squeezed his knucklebones to an instant's pain. "And you're Karl," the man said, turning and holding out his hand again. "Now if you had changed your name I could understand it." Laughter rose louder. "Shake it," the man said, smiling. "Don't be afraid." Karl, staring, shook the man's hand. Chip said, "You're-"

"Wei," the man said, his slit-eyes twinkling. "From here up, that is." He touched his coveralls' high collar. "From here down," he said, "I'm several other members, principally Jesus RE who won the decathlon in 163." He smiled at them.

"Didn't you ever bounce a ball when you were a child?" he asked. "Didn't you ever jump rope? 'Marx, Wood, Wei, and Christ; all but Wei were sacrificed.' It's still true, you see. 'Out of the mouths of babes.' Come, sit down, you must be tired. Why couldn't you use the elevators like everyone else? Dover, it's good to have you back. You've done very well, except for that awful business at the '013 bridge."

They sat in deep and comfortable red chairs, drank pale yellow tart-tasting wine from sparkling glasses, ate sweetly stewed cubes of meat and fish and who-knew-what brought on delicate white plates by young members who smiled at them admiringly—and as they sat and drank and ate, they talked with Wei. With Weil How old was that tight-skinned yellow head, living and talking on its lithe red-coveralled body that reached easily for a cigarette, crossed its legs casually? The last anniversary of his birth had been what—the two-hundred-and-sixth, the two-hundred-and-seventh?

Wei died when he was sixty, twenty-five years after the Unification. Generations before the building of Uni, which was programmed by his "spiritual heirs." Who died, of course, at sixty-two. So the Family was taught. And there he sat, drinking, eating, smoking. Men and women stood listening around the group of chairs; he seemed not to notice them. "The islands have been all those things," he said. "At first they were the strongholds of the original incurables; and then, as you put it, 'isolation wards' to which we let later incurables 'escape,' although we weren't so kind as to supply boats in those days." He smiled and drew on his cigarette. "Then, however," he said, "I found a better use for them, and now they serve as, forgive me, wildlife preserves, where natural leaders can emerge and prove themselves exactly as you have done. Now we supply boats and maps, rather obliquely, and 'shepherds' like Dover who accompany returning members and prevent as much violence as they can. And prevent, of course, the final intended violence, Uni's destruction—although the visitors' display is the usual target, so there's no real danger whatsoever." Chip said, "I don't know where I am." Karl, spearing a cube of meat with a small gold fork, said, "Asleep in the parkland," and the men and women nearby laughed.

Wei, smiling, said, "Yes, it's a disconcerting discovery, I'm sure. The computer that you thought was the Family's changeless and uncontrolled master is in fact the Family's servant, controlled by members like yourselves—enterprising, thoughtful, and concerned. Its goals and procedures change continually, according to the decisions of a High Council and fourteen sub-councils. We enjoy luxuries, as you can see, but we have responsibilities that more than justify them. Tomorrow you'll begin to learn. Now, though"—he leaned forward and pressed his cigarette into an ashtray—"it's very late, thanks to your partiality to tunnels. You'll be shown to your rooms; I hope you find them worth the walk." He smiled and rose, and they rose with him. He shook Karl's hand—"Congratulations, Karl," he said—and Chip's. "And congratulations to you, Chip," he said. "We suspected a long time ago that sooner or later you would be coming. We're glad you haven't disappointed us. I'm glad, I mean; it's hard to avoid talking as if Uni has feelings too." He turned away and people crowded around them, shaking their hands and saying, "Congratulations, I never thought you'd make it before Unification Day, it's awful isn't it when you come in and everyone's sitting here congratulations you'll get used to things before you congratulations."

The room was large and pale blue, with a large pale-blue silken bed with many pillows, a large painting of floating water lilies, a table of covered dishes and decanters, dark green armchairs, and a bowl of white and yellow chrysanthemums on a long low cabinet.

"It's beautiful," Chip said. "Thank you."

The girl who had led him to it, an ordinary-looking member of sixteen or so in white paplon, said, "Sit down and I'll take off your—" She pointed at his feet.

"Shoes," he said, smiling. "No. Thanks, sister; I can do it myself."

"Daughter," she said.

"Daughter?"

"The programmers are our Fathers and Mothers," she said.

"Oh," he said. "All right. Thanks, daughter. You can go now."