Jesse Miller - PIGEON CITY [novelette]

In biological evolution, natural selection can take place over many generations, lasting for eons. In social evolution, there's not enough time for that. But, if you realize that "only the game fish swim upstream ..."

Summer dawn. The sun had about risen and Curtiss pushed back the fire door and emerged on the roof. He breathed deeply and happily, the brightening sun warm on his face. He drank in the early morning sun, and it bathed his strong black features until his face shone like copper.

Curtiss had the most magnificent coop in Harlem. Built and added to over the years, it was more like a miniature pagoda than a coop. Curt loved these moments alone before he flew the birds. The coop stood in a corner of the roof. It was red and gold, and it shone quietly, the birds within cooing and rustling as they awoke, preening and stretching.

He would prolong these moments as long as possible. Once the birds were released, they would fly and whirl: so many specks of pepper in a shifting pattern that always seemed to be on the verge of spelling something. The whole city could enjoy them. But for now, they were only his. The plastiscreen reflected the pink early morning light, and Curtiss wanted to sing; he was bursting with quiet joy and pride.

Below on Lenox Avenue, a mechisweeper was making its automated rounds past the empty, abandoned buildings across the street. Curtiss half watched as it stopped before an obstacle. He imagined he could hear computers chattering as the sweeper analyzed the obstruction. The night before, a car had been burned, and now there was a heap of melted hardened plastic at the curb. The sweepers almost never erred. A cold light swept the street, shone on the plastic mess, and dissolved it. Curtiss was unimpressed. He watched as the big brooms began again to rotate, and the sweeper lurched off into the next block.

He had once wondered about the cost of one of those mechisweepers, but an eduvision program had compared the operation of the sweeper with the selection of a floor by an elevator. The whole thing had been made to seem so practical and uncomplicated. A narrator had suggested that it was vastly more efficient to automate wherever possible, rather than hire and maintain human operators.

Curtiss shrugged and walked to the coop. He spoke to the birds. "What's the difference? Life is good, we all eat, hey?"

The birds knew their time was coming. They finished primping and hopped about with quick, jerky movements. He unlatched a few doors, and they began jumping to their little exit ledge, looking around, and then flying off. Curtiss felt a touch of envy. The pigeons would go where they wanted, see and be seen by anyone, while he waited on the roof until it was time to eat. All there was for him to do was eat, sleep, and tinker with his coop.

No one went downtown any more. Of course, some people were reclaimed when they interfered with the operation of a city machine, but they never returned, and over the years the curiosity had finally dissipated. It didn't seem strange to anyone that there was no curiosity. All needs were met. Everyone was fed and clothed, housing was adequate. The people had become lethargic.

Curtiss tilted his head back and watched as the birds formed up, whirling and diving above him until they drifted away, an airy, perpetually breaking wave, constantly forming and reforming, hypnotically growing smaller.

They called this roof where Curtiss spent his days "Pigeon City of 112th Street." He sighed and went to the toolbox. There was never a question of not having enough materials. The super filed a monthly requisition form, and it was easy to get him to include a pint can of metallic gold paint or a few yards of plastiscreen.

Everyone knew the computers downtown kept track, but no one minded as long as all needs and most wants were satisfied. Curtiss rubbed his eyes and selected a small brush. He spread some paper and began to paint. The computers encouraged everyone to have a hobby. No requisition for a hobby was denied. The fact that the computers kept track was confirmed by their handling of Allen, the throwback, the dissident, the exception who proved the rule of general content.

The sun was up now. Curtiss took off his shirt and draped it on the knob of the fire door. It was warm, it was good. He hummed softly as he painted. The sun baked his muscles as he stroked the plastiwood. Life was easy, so sweet. The eduvision said the ghetto represented man's first arrival in Utopia.

Allen cropped up again in Curtiss' head. There was something righteous in the way Allen had complained when he had been cut off by the computers. There was data assembled on Allen, just as there was data assembled on everyone else, but Allen had requisitioned dynamite. It was a joke. Under "reason" Allen had written, "hobby." He had been given the explosive, but his subsequent requests were turned down. Allen had even been mentioned on eduvision. He was a local star, a source of real entertainment, like Curt's pigeons.

The people knew how Allen felt. Allen hated. As a child in the street, he had lost his foot. It had happened when he played with a mechisweeper. It was all right to climb on back and go for a little ride, but to obstruct it, to scream at it and taunt it as Allen had was lunacy. When the sweeper's computer had elected to override interference due to Allen's antics, and he had seen that he would be ignored, Allen had dashed in front, trotted backwards, laughed and shouted. Then he had tripped and fallen...

It was time to eat. Curtiss carefully set his brush in thinner and capped the paint. The sky was blue and cloudless. Soon it would be fall. Impossible beauty, peace and happiness were all around him. He strode to the fire door and into the dank tenement on which he played and dreamed.

All hobbies were done on roofs. The buildings' interiors were generally squalid. No one seemed to care. Live and let live, and when things spilled over into the streets, there were the mechisweepers.

The lunch truck was actually another sweeper, but it was modified to dispense food. It scanned cards and issued infraheated food especially programmed for the individual's dietary needs. The computer was benevolent. Everyone ate well, even if only once a day.

Allen hobbled up behind Curtiss in the line. "Mind if I bump you?" he whispered.

"Why?" Curtiss replied. "In a hurry?"

"I sure am, brother," Allen said. He produced his card and fingered it nervously.

"Well, I'm in a hurry too," Curtiss said. "You'll have to wait."

"I can see you're in a hurry." Allen laughed and seized one of Curtiss' hands, holding it up to embarrass him. It was flecked with paint. "Yeah, you're in a hurry," Allen continued. "You're messing around up there in your Pigeon City so tough you don't have the time to put on a shirt or wash your hands when the roach coach gets in."

Curtiss relented. "O.K., brother, take my place."

Allen moved up immediately and began to tap the shoulder of the girl in front of him. "Excuse me, sister, mind if I move up?"

Curtiss watched with amusement as Allen cajoled and bargained his way to the head of the line. "He always has to be different," Curtiss said to no one in particular, and the girl in front of him shook her head and smiled. By the time Curtiss reached the window of the roach coach and presented his card, Allen was off the line and half finished with his meal. Curtiss took his tray and joined him on the steps of the building.

"What were you in such a hurry for?" Curtiss asked, sitting down beside him. Allen squinted up at the hot, midday sun and did not answer, but returned to his nearly empty tray, scooping and bolting his remaining food.

The roach coach clanged and rattled away, across Lenox Avenue. Curtiss leaned forward and he could see people clustering in the next block where they knew the coach would pull up.

"Do you like this?" Allen said suddenly.

"What?" Curtiss was confused. He knew to expect anything from, Allen, but he was still often taken by surprise. Allen stood and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He was tall, and he looked proud. His limp enhanced his different approach, and he knew it. Curtiss sensed a speech was coming, and he tried to cut Allen off.

"Look, brother, I only asked you why you were in such a hurry. Don't give me any lectures, O.K.?"

But Allen had drawn himself up to his full, crooked height, and he would not listen. Up and down 112th Street, the people were slowing in their eating. There would be entertainment. Allen would talk. They began to gather around, and Allen drew them in with regal sweeps of his arm. He turned to Curt.

"I asked you, 'Do you like this?' and you didn't answer. Does this mean you don't know?" Allen was using his speech voice, and a girl giggled. Curtiss lowered his head. He longed to be back on the roof.

"I'll tell you all why I was in such a hurry," Allen thundered. "It was my intention to reach the coach before anyone had eaten, and smash it." Allen looked around and reached under his dashiki. He produced a brick and held it aloft for all to see. There was a startled gasp from the crowd, and everything grew still.

The heat beat down on them all. The street felt sticky. Curtiss sipped his carton of lemonade slowly, trying to conserve its cool trickle in his dusty throat.

"Why would you do a thing like that, son?" It was an old woman the people called "Raisin Face," and her lips moved and worked on her question.

"Why?" Allen yelled. "To make everybody do something, that's why! You think I don't care? I do care. Brothers and sisters, it's us, not one meal that I care for. A single meal? We wouldn't starve, and there'd be another coach tomorrow."

Now there was confusion. The crowd surged, and there were cries of "How do you know?" and "What gives you the right?" They were angry. Allen stood confused and alone. Curtiss had to give him credit for trying to stay cool.

Curtiss stood and waved his arms for attention. Gradually, the noise subsided, and Curt spoke. "Why he would do it is one thing, we can like his reason or not. The fact is, he didn't do it, and I'd like to know why." Attention swung back to Allen, and he blinked gratefully. Curtiss resumed his seat.

"You people want to know why I didn't do it?" Allen addressed himself to Raisin Face. "I got to the head of the line, the brick was in my hand," the crowd leaned forward, straining not to miss a word, "but when I took a deep breath, that food smelled so good, I just had to have some." He pretended to gnaw at the brick, and the crowd laughed. Raisin Face grinned appreciatively.

The tension broke as easily as if it had never been there. Allen shuddered with relief. Mob violence was not unusual and it was almost always fatal to the victim. It had been a close call. He looked over to Curtiss, but Curt avoided his eye. "I have one more thing to say," Allen called. "There will be a meeting tonight, held by me."

"Where?" The mood of the crowd was eager. The promise of real entertainment was always with Allen's presence in an almost tangible aura.

Allen took a deep breath. "Pigeon City," he replied at last.

Curtiss jumped, spilling some of the precious summer lemonade, but Allen was already limping off down the street and the crowd, buzzing with excitement and anticipation, was breaking up.

The hot afternoon wore on. People returned to their respective hobbies. From the roof at 112th and Lenox the intermittent "tok, tok, tok" of a hammer floated out over the lazy, heat-bound streets. Curtiss was back at work in Pigeon City.

Allen had joined him on the roof. He hobbled this way and that, almost apologetically offering help.

"Need some nails, man? Can I get you some nails?"

Curtiss could not help smiling. He looked up at Allen's eager tan face and willing brown hands. "What's with you, brother?" he said at last.

"Nothing, nothing," Allen quickly replied. He limped away to the tool box, and Curtiss sat down in the shade of his coop, lighting a cigarette and watching his friend.

Allen smelled the smoke and came skipping back. "Where'd you get that?" he demanded. He handed Curtiss a wrinkled bag with a nail sticking out of a corner and snatched the cigarette.

"I requisitioned it," Curtiss replied casually.

Allen puffed greedily, and the smoke caught in his lungs. Coughing, he handed it back. "Here man, I don't smoke."

"Neither do I," Curtiss said. He clipped the cigarette and carefully tucked it in his shirt pocket.

Allen was fascinated. He took off his dashiki and hung it near Curtiss' shirt on the door. Curtiss was startled to see how skinny Allen was as he sat down beside him in the shade. His attitude had become conspiratorial.

"You requisitioned cigarettes, and you don't smoke." Allen paused and stroked his chin as though he needed time to really think. "Why?" he suddenly demanded. "For someone else?"

"Nope," Curtiss replied simply. "Well, why then?" Allen's eyes were narrow.

"Because I wanted to see if the computer would send them, that's all." Curtiss seemed a little annoyed, and Allen knew he was embarrassed.

"You wanted to see if the computer would send them and it did. So I was wrong, is that it?" Allen was smiling. They were well aware of what Allen referred to: After the computer had put two and two together, figured out that Allen was making bombs, and restricted his requisition, Allen had loudly pointed out to everyone that if he could be restricted by the computer today, someone else might get the ax tomorrow. "Policy is subject to change," he said, and no one acted as if he cared. Although his point had struck home, it had never been tested. But the seeds of doubt had been planted. Allen took Curtiss' behavior as proof, and he was glad.

He clapped his hands and stood up. "That's what I love about you, brother, you're so open-minded." Before Curtiss could reply, Allen limped to the door, grabbed his dashiki and started down the steps. The door was swinging shut behind him and he called back over his shoulder, "I'll see you tonight."

Curtiss was alone on the roof again. "Yeah, catch you later," he said, almost to himself. He got to his feet and scanned the sky. Soon the birds would begin returning. Curtiss was worried. He frowned and moved around the roof, making ready for the arrival of the first pigeon.

The pigeons were all back in the coop. The roof was crowded with laughing, eager people. The word had spread. Allen looked around and paced the roof with unconcealed delight. Hundreds of people had responded to the possibility of being entertained by their local star. To make them act was another matter, but Allen had a plan. Tonight, he would do more than entertain.

"This meeting is hereby called to order," he said solemnly. He waved his arms and called for attention, but was only met with jeers and laughter. Allen nodded and waited. The setting sun dyed his face a deep bronze color. Here and there on neighboring roofs, Allen could see knots of people standing and talking. A breeze came up from the east, and Allen's old-fashioned dashiki ruffled and flapped. It was getting cooler.

"What time is it?" Allen asked. The people were startled. No one paid much attention to the time anymore. To show concern for time had fallen out of fashion. There was simply never a need to worry about the time.

"About 7:30, brother," someone finally called. The people grew quiet and began to watch Allen. He nodded his thanks and started to talk.

"I'm not going to say, 'Nobody has a job,' because no one cares to work. I'm not going to say, 'No one that's retrieved ever comes back,' because we all know that, but we act like the only solution is to stay in line and we won't get in trouble."

A commotion was boiling up in the rear of the crowd. "What are you supposed to be getting at?" a man called, and he was pushing his way to the front of the crowd. Allen could see as the man came closer that it was Franklyn. His mouth was twisted on a piece of hard candy. Franklyn always had a piece of hobby candy in his mouth. He made it. Allen folded his arms and waited. Franklyn's manner was threatening, and Allen knew it would be best to let him talk.

"Let him pass!" he called, and Franklyn elbowed his way to the front.

"What are you getting at?" Franklyn demanded. He stood close to Allen's face and Allen caught the vague odor of lemons on Franklyn's breath. He could hear the candy rattling on his teeth as he spoke, and he could not help smiling. Franklyn became furious. "Don't laugh, brother," he screamed. "You're a troublemaker, do you know that? You're not satisfied unless you're making waves."

The crowd murmured appreciatively. Conflict. So soon. Variety. They ate it up. Allen wet his lips. Frank was taking rope, warming to the crowd. He pushed his finger at Allen's chest. "Someone should set you up to get retrieved," he said menacingly. "Then we'd have you out of our hair." Franklyn turned his back on Allen and began to address the people.

"They retrieved my only sister because of his mouth," he shouted. "If we pay attention to this fool, we'll all be in trouble." Frank's voice was rising. "This is the fool that got Irene to interfere with the police." He sobbed suddenly, but forced himself to go on. "They retrieved her ..." His voice broke and he could not continue. Frank waved his arm at Allen, who stood quietly behind him. He hid his face in his hands and stood helplessly immobile.

"I was with Irene," Allen said at last. "I believe in what we did."

Franklyn whirled. "But they took her, and you got away." He shook with emotion, and Allen put his hand on Frank's shoulder.

"You pretend you don't care, we all pretend we don't care, but we do. You see, we do." He raised his voice and addressed the rest of the crowd in the fading light, his hand still on Frank's shoulder. "We eat the meals the roach coach dispenses," he said. "And we don't dare act strange for fear it won't come back. If the vans came to retrieve, we'd go along quietly for fear there'd be heavier retribution."

The mention of heavier retribution sent a shuddering wave through the silent crowd. Heavier retribution was a reference to the eduvision tapes they had been shown after the riots in Bedford Stuy. No one could forget the films of people doped and gassed, rounded up and herded into vans. Mass reclamation. All those people, never to return to their hobbies, their families, their community. A white voice intoning off camera while the horrible scene was enacted: `This is the fate of the greedy, the destructive, the ignorant ..."

Heavier retribution. The thought of it brought to mind those nightmare tapes, purposely designed to be unforgettable, obviously intended to keep the ghetto in line.

The black people on the roof of Pigeon City that summer evening had gathered there for entertainment. Allen looked from one face to another. Everyone was quiet and fearful. The breeze gently moved Allen's dashiki about him like a flag. At last he said, `Tonight, we will all fight."

There was no response. Franklyn stood with his shoulders bent and the people avoided Allen's eye. "Who will we fight, brother?" Curtiss called from the back of the roof, and his question hung in the air unanswered. Allen's head was bowed, and he did not reply. "What time is it?" he asked quietly. He seemed mildly disappointed about something. Now no one answered him, and there were some who stood to go.

Haroooom! A tremendous explosion suddenly lit up the night sky with a flash that caught everyone by surprise. It was followed by two more explosions and flashes, and the crowd stood out clearly with each brief, stupendous gush of light. Whistling fragments of metal, pieces of building and shards of glass shot through the air. The people's mouths hung open, and Allen looked around craftily from under his brow.

There was fire, bright and hot. The abandoned buildings on the other side of the street had somehow burst into flame and where their shells had stood, there was now a wall of undulating red and yellow flame. The people got to their feet. They could see everyone turning in this direction for blocks. This was history. The biggest explosion and fire in the city anyone could remember.

Already there was the stench of melting plastic, and the blaze was spreading. There were secondary explosions; powerful concussions that rattled doors and windows. Men and women were running in the street as far as the eye could see.

At last, there came the wail of an approaching siren. A mechi-engine. The people began to cheer. The mechi-engines were a pleasure to watch. They selected the core of a big fire and subdued it with computer-directed foamers, never erring.

Allen was becoming more and more excited. The people were crowding to the parapets to watch. Could one mechi-engine handle a fire this big? There was really very little doubt, but the fire blazed, roaring and radiating heat for blocks around. Lenox Avenue was a scene from hell.

Allen stood and listened. The sirens drew closer. His fingers were curled around the same polyethylene brick he had brandished that afternoon. The engine hove into view, rounding the corner at 110th and swinging north on Lenox. The crowd cheered it on. Allen knew no one would let him throw the brick if he was spotted. He stuffed it under his dashiki and waited. He would make everyone fight before he was finished.

Someone touched his sleeve. It was Frank. Their eyes met in the red glow of the fire. Frank's face twisted in a silent question: "You?" Allen nodded. Frank's eyes gleamed and he too picked up a brick; together they waited.

The engine had slowed in the street. It was selecting the best spot from which to attack the fire. The siren stopped and the people could hear the whine of heavy-duty electric motors: The engine was like a bull preparing to ram the heart of the fire. It cruised slowly up the street, sensors out and working, and it was like an animal. Closer, a little closer, the great golden bell clanged slowly as though the mechi-engine was thinking.

Allen knew if he didn't act soon, the engine would grapple with the fire, win, and leave unmolested. He stood and hurled the brick, quickly stooping and following it with another.

"Fight, fight, fight!" he screamed. Frank was throwing bricks beside him. The crowd watched, amazed. The stunned people looked on as the unlikely pair threw bricks, bottles and whatever they could get their hands on.

The engine began again to move. Frank stopped and froze, seized with panic. The engine was coming with surprising speed, and it was ignoring the fire. It squealed to a stop almost directly below Pigeon City. Allen could almost hear the computers whirring and clicking. A ladder was climbing toward them, a hose at the edge. The crowd stood transfixed. All eyes were on that hose. "Gas," someone whispered fearfully.

The ladder extended, smoothly, slickly reaching for the roof from which the bricks had been thrown. The engine was programmed to pick up the dissidents; the fire raged on unchecked.

"Fight! Fight!" Allen screamed. He tore a loose brick from the parapet and threw it. It struck the onrushing ladder and bounced harmlessly to the street below. "Fight or be retrieved," he yelled. That did it. First one and then another citizen joined in the fray. The ladder hesitated under the bombardment of bottles and bricks. The hose began to spew gas prematurely, still a few floors below. The ladder weaved like a cobra. The people cheered. It was the first time a machine had been deterred, but it was still coming. Everyone knew it would get them unless it was rendered absolutely unfunctional. The missile throwing became serious, the marksmen among them taking careful aim before throwing whatever small or large objects they could find.

Curtiss tapped Allen's back. Allen turned, and the two friends eyed each other in this moment of crisis. "Help me," Allen said simply. "Help."

Curtiss beckoned to Allen and together they walked through the intent crowd of fighting men. Allen stopped when they reached Curt's coop; he understood immediately. They went behind it and gave a mighty heave. The coop rocked a little, but it wasn't until others came and lent a hand that they were able to budge it. Under pressure of massed coordinated effort, the huge coop finally yielded. It toppled over on its side, and the birds within squawked and complained. Feathers drifted inside the plastiscreen enclosure. The men pushed the big coop, and it went side over side through the crowd, leaving a trail of broken bits of plastiwood.

At last, the coop stood ready on the roofs edge. The ladder was a few yards away and climbing, bricks and bottles pelted the engine below. The people could easily hear sensors clicking as the ladder probed and sought. The hose spit thick yellow gas.

Three men began to rock the coop. "One!" they shouted, and it tilted a little, then swayed in again. The men met the return swing and pushed back. "Two!" The massive coop swung far out over the street and slipped a little before swinging in once more. "Three!" they shouted, and the pigeons were gone forever. Everyone ran to watch as the huge coop disappeared over the edge of the parapet, smashed into the extending ladder and hurtled straight at the engine below.

It snapped through two clotheslines on the way down, and by the time it struck the engine in the street it was an impossibly huge crate, shrouded in flying sheets and flapping assorted clothes. Broken ropes whipped the air around it and it struck the engine with a tremendous crash, crushing it under its colossal weight and impact.

A machine had been beaten. The roar of the fire was a lullaby. The street had gone suddenly quiet. A machine had tried to get them, and they had stopped it. "God," someone whispered, and everyone turned, startled.

The fire seemed to blaze with renewed life. It devoured and spread, eating and destroying unhampered.

Everyone rushed down to the crippled engine. It lay smoking and twisted, and there was glee to the point of madness. The liberated crowd pounced on the disabled machine and began to rip off parts, running and dancing. Allen reached the street a little after the others, and he hobbled impotently from man to man, begging them all to stop. The mob laughed and celebrated, ignoring Allen.

Curtiss was a hero. The fire roared on unimpeded now, and melting plastic began to flow in the street. It was like liquid wax. It immediately began to harden. Children rolled the cooling stuff into balls and threw them back into the fire, then, laughing, at each other.

There was great jubilation, but Allen hobbled quickly from one man to another. "Stop!" he yelled. "Get off the streets! Get off the streets!" He was beside himself, but the people would not listen. Allen was going hoarse

He spotted Curt. Curtiss was sitting on the curb in the flickering shadows. In his hands, he cupped a broken and dying bird. Allen scrabbled over to him and squeezed his shoulder. Curt looked up slowly, but he did not seem to see.

"Curt, Curt, I can't make them stop. They won't listen." His face was twisted with fear and emotion. Something in the urgency of his voice broke through, and Curt slowly got to his feet, leaving the pigeon on the ground beside him.

"Listen to what?" Curtiss said softly.

"The sirens, man. The sirens! The vans are coming!"

Curtiss cocked his head and listened carefully. Sure enough, over the noise of the fire, the roar of the jubilant crowd, drifted the distant whine of approaching multiple sirens. The riot vans. Slowly, Curtiss turned and faced Allen.

"Listen Curt, we've got to..."

But Curt would no longer listen. He clenched his fist, and suddenly swung with all his might so that Allen caught it in the pit of his stomach and went down, twisting and gasping.

"You've gone too far," Curtiss hissed. "You talk too much. You always talked too much." Curtiss drew back his foot. He shook with hate and fear.

Someone spotted him and ran over. It was Franklyn, happy as a lark in the dancing glow of the blaze. "Curtiss, what are you doing, brother?" His mouth worked on the ever-present lemon yellow candy. "What do you think you're about to do?" He laughed and seized Curtiss, spinning him away from Allen.

"What am I about to do?" Curtiss pushed Frank off. "Listen, brother. Just listen, and you tell me what I'm supposed to do."

Then they listened together, and by now, the wail of the mechivan's sirens was much closer. "No," Franklyn whispered softly.

But it was undeniably true. The sirens were very close now, unmistakable even above the snarl and crackle of that magnificent fire. One by one, the men stopped running in the streets, until Lenox Avenue was filled with trapped rioters. They stood, rooted to their places like so many chessmen. Guilty children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. The fire was a tall red beacon, telling on them. Someone looked at it as though he wished it would go away.

One man had the dead engine's bell, and he looked around cunningly before stuffing it up in his shirt. Then he too froze, but the machine's gold bell dropped to the street and began rolling toward the gutter, clanging sadly.

There was nowhere to run. The vans could be heard encircling the block now. Curtiss turned and walked away. He knew he too would be retrieved, but he had to be as far from Allen as possible. Allen forced himself to rise and follow Curtiss.

His steel foot made keeping up difficult, but he persisted, scurrying after Curt and calling to him.

"Listen to me," Allen was saying. "Would you please listen?"

"Get away from me, Allen." Curtiss' voice was bitter. The hands swinging at his sides were fists. "I'm warning' you, brother, stay back. You've done enough."

Allen took a deep breath and struggled to keep pace. "Just two words, brother," he panted. "Please let me say these last two words."

Curtiss was furious, but he spun and waited, glaring at Allen. Allen caught up. He looked like a madman in the reflected firelight, the people around them stood stock still waiting for their roundup as helplessly as cattle.

"What two words could you possibly have for me that could change any of this?" Curtiss said sadly.

Allen reached under his dashiki and produced two gas masks. His eyes gleamed wickedly, and he said, "Trojan Horse."

The gas began to wear off. One by one, the group from Pigeon City was awaking. Franklyn stretched and yawned, and Allen stood over him, his hands on his hips.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," he said. Franklyn glared at him and dug in his pockets for a piece of candy before responding.

"Where are we? What time is it?" he mumbled, broadcasting lemon. He sat up and looked around. He was on a cot, in the midst of a large number of cots, all occupied by the people from Pigeon City.

"You know where we are." Allen was deliberately antagonistic. "You don't want to know what time it is, you want to know how long you've been out. What makes you think I know the answers anyway? I thought you said I'm a fool."

"Just look at you," Franklyn replied. "Check yourself and your buddy over there, and even you can see it's obvious you've been up to something." He nodded toward Curtiss, who stood in the middle counting the cots.

"That's right." Allen moved closer to Franklyn. "We've been up to something, we've just been going along with the program to see what happens."

"So? What happens?" Franklyn saw that the room was huge, at least three times the size of a big gym. The floor was plastiwood, and sunlight filtered through a set of municipal-style windows that extended the length of the hall. Under the windows were a set of doors marked 1, 2 and 3. The tile walls gave everyone's voice an indoor swimming pool ring.

"Nothing happens," Allen said after waiting for Franklyn to take in their surroundings. "The vans took us here, all automatic and smooth as you please. The gas made everybody kind of doped ... you all just stood there in the street. Nobody on the vans to see Curtiss and me with our gas masks on. Voice like the ones on eduvision tapes told us to get into the vans, and you all climbed in, nicely. When we got here, the voice told us to get off and we marched in here ... You don't remember?"

"No, I don't remember." Franklyn scratched his head.

"Well anyway, Curtiss is counting the cots to see how many people we've got here. That's what we were doing when everybody started to come ungassed."

Franklyn rattled his candy against his teeth. "You're really one for the books, you know that brother?" he said.

"Seventy-six, exactly!" Curtiss called from across the floor, and he began to stroll toward Allen and Frank.

"Thanks," Allen said.

"Thanks?" Franklyn shouted, and his voice echoed through the great hollow hall. "Man, you actually believe we're going to cooperate with you? You're the reason we're down here in the first place!" The people began to drift over, attracted by the commotion, ever responsive to the faintest whiff of controversy. Franklyn turned and began to address them:

"Listen up, everybody! This is it, we've been reclaimed! We've been taken, and we know who to blame for it ..."

Allen ran to Frank and spun him around. "What are you trying to do?" he yelled. "We've got to stick together, we can't be fighting anymore." He turned to the people. "Let's be calm, please, just this once, and we can accomplish ..." "Why don't you shut up?" a disgusted voice called from the back. "Yeah," someone added. "Never should have listened to you in the first place."

Allen's light tan face went dark. "I tried to warn you," he cried. "All of you. I said, 'Get off the streets, get some shelter, stop and listen!' But no, you had to play, you had to have your fun. And now you want to blame me." He focused his attention on Frank. "Don't you see, brother?" he said at last.

Franklyn returned Allen's gaze. "Yeah, I see," he replied. "And I see the reason, too."

"You big lemon-eating fool!" Allen screamed. "You may think you see, but you don't see nothin', and you know even less than that."

They began to move toward each other, and the people murmured excitedly. Curtiss intervened.

"That's enough," he said quietly. "This won't get us anywhere. We should be finding a solution, not a culprit."

Frank blinked. "But I was perfectly happy before ..." and he paused, searching for words while his candy clicked and rattled against the back of his teeth.

"Sure, you were happy, dufus, that's the whole point," Allen snarled, and they moved angrily to close the gap between them. Again Curtiss held them apart, and the crowd grew impatient.

"Let them fight," everyone said.

Curtiss was embarrassed in his role as peacemaker. "I don't want to make any speeches or anything," he said shyly. "I just know we can't waste time arguing and fighting, that's all."

Allen and Franklyn stood glaring at each other, and the people gathered around happily. They would see a fight. Entertainment, variety, conflict. They loved it.

For Allen and Frank, there could be no backing out now. They squared off and put up their hands.

"Go ahead, hit him," the people called. But Raisin Face cleared her throat, and the hall grew still. Everyone turned to hear her speak, her cheeks puffed and inflated like worn dark paper bags. The people strained to catch the sound of her wheezing voice. At last she was ready.

"I don't see any difference between the way you children are acting here and the way you acted back home at Pigeon City." Her cane wobbled as she stretched her rattling chest, taking air before beginning to talk again. The hall was deathly quiet. Franklyn suddenly turned on her.

"What do you mean, 'You children'?" he roared. "What's supposed to be so different about you? I didn't notice you hanging back or acting any different last night at the fire, and you don't look any different to me now." He paused for breath, and Raisin Face shrugged and walked away.

Franklyn was infuriated. "Don't turn your back on me when I'm trying to, talk to you!" he shouted, and some of the people looked over their shoulders and at the ceilings, as though they were afraid such a disturbance would bring retribution from a higher source.

Raisin Face raised her heavy cane and turned around.

"And don't you holler at me!" she hissed. She began swatting Franklyn with her thick gnarled stick.

Franklyn covered his face and head, ducking and laughing, he caught most of the blows on his arms or shoulders. "Ow, hey, ouch! Cut it out!" he giggled like a happy child.

But the old lady was surprisingly quick and agile. "Not till you say you're sorry!" she panted, working. The stick whistled and swished, thumping Franklyn across his back and cracking him painfully at his elbows. The crowd laughed joyously. Everyone was happy.

"All right, all right, I'm sorry," he said at last. Raisin Face grinned and relented.

"Won't disrespect me," she muttered as she smoothed her dress.

The hall grew quiet. No one seemed worried or apprehensive but Curtiss, Allen, Franklyn, and Raisin Face. Everyone else had simply acted as though they knew the computer would do what it wanted to, and there was no way to fight it.

The other four moved restlessly around the tiled hall, arguing or talking, constantly pacing and examining, Chafing within the confines of that huge cold room, they stood among the seventy-six cots and argued. They moved to the opposite end of the long hall, where the prisoners had first stumbled in, and they stood under the huge scoreboard-type affair that hung from the ceiling. They talked and talked, but they could not find common ground. Allen wanted to smash and destroy, to unify the people, use their consolidated strength and break out, find the white people and take them by surprise. He limped back and forth excitedly, but the others were tired of hearing him.

Curtiss saw the need for radical action, but he wanted to stay and learn. "That's because you don't have those silly birds to go back to anymore," Allen said, endangering his good standing with the one person he considered almost to be an ally.

Franklyn ate lemon candy and mumbled about "Allen's big mouth," but he stayed with the radical group because he believed his sister had passed through this same hall when she had been reclaimed, and he knew instinctively it would take radical, or at least, different behavior to find her.

Raisin Face was as ever, the enigma. She puffed and wheezed, and Allen suspected that her only reason for moving with them was their greater entertainment factor.

There was a whistle, shrill, like the piping they had heard in the eduvision tapes of the old Navy. Curtiss looked up and around. They all expected to hear a metallic voice saying: "Now hear this, now hear this, now ..."

Instead, the people were gasping and turning toward the board over the heads of Allen, Frank and Curtiss. Raisin Face stepped back toward the middle of the floor and looked up. "Come here!" she cried. Allen and the others moved to join her. The board was coming to life. Information went jattering across it electrically:

Jun 6 2066 ... 76 dissidents... Ten A.M... . Pigeon City... 112th and Lenox...

That information posted, the screen went blank. There was humming and chattering from the board. Most of the people were glad, Allen recognized, and he loathed the whirring and clicking of the computer. It almost always made his foot ache the way rain agitated Raisin Face's arthritis.

The board came back to life, and a display appeared consisting of miniature electronic representations of the seventy-six cots at the end of the hall. Allen and Curtiss looked at each other and said nothing. Franklyn was quiet, for once even his candy was still, and they watched nervously as instructions appeared under the seventy-six cots.

"Proceed to the pallets." The computer spelled it out for them.

One by one, and then in groups of three and four, the milling, tired people shuffled over to the cots. When they were at the pallets, a miniature human silhouette appeared in the corresponding electronic symbol on the board.

Allen saw that it would he useless to hang back and so he limped over with the others and took his place on a cot. When everyone was positioned, an ominous hissing sound began to come from somewhere, but Allen could not be sure where. He sat up and saw that Curtiss too was rising and looking quickly around. Their eyes met and the realization hit them at the same time as the chemical: Gas!

Franklyn tried to fight it. He wanted to stay alert, he wanted to do whatever he had to do to find Irene, but the familiar freezing feeling was spreading in his head, and he began for the second time in less than twenty-four hours to cease to care.

Allen sank back, wondering why he bothered to fight. The gas was a new experience for Curtiss and him. Their masks had protected them on the way down, but now Allen thought, "For what?" and part of his mind was surprised at himself, while the growing, spreading part ate away his will.

Low double doors under the board banged open, but Allen didn't care. He wasn't sure if he was dreaming, and in fact it didn't make any difference to him if he was or not. Not really. Not even when he saw that the doors had swung open to admit a little cart-sized machine which-buzzed directly into the room, rolling straight for the seventy-six people lying helplessly on their cots.

The machine began to move from bed to bed. Allen could not always see it, but he could hear it, humming and clicking as it made its evil automatic rounds. His foot ached and he longed to sit up and rub his eyes, but he was too tired. The little monstrosity took pressures, gave injections, and whirred around corners like a mechanical mouse. Allen wondered if the others were aware of what was happening, and then he drifted off.

He dreamed the machine was coming down his row of beds. He tried to move away, but his body would not obey his mind. It paused at his side, chattering and whirring. Allen felt its cold loathsome touch, here, now there, gently probing. He didn't know what the thing was doing, and he was afraid to wonder for fear he would find out.

He became aware that he had been injected with something.

Sensation was returning. He sat up and rubbed his wrists. Curtiss was recovering too, and Allen saw that his friend was laughing.

"What's supposed to be so funny?" he asked.

"You are, brother," Curtiss readily replied. "You and your Trojan Horse."

Allen had to admit Curtiss had a point. After he had gone out of his way to stay undoped, here he was, recovering just like everyone else. Allen smiled and nodded, but he began almost immediately to try to regain control of the situation.

"How long do you think we've been out?" he asked no one in particular. There was no reply. The doctor machine had finished, and it rolled away through the doors at the far end of the hall.

The board lit up with the date and time, and Allen shouted, "What's the score?" The people snickered. The seventy-six pallets reappeared on the screen, and as they watched, green circles appeared around three of the beds. Allen stood, and the silhouette in one of the cots with the circle vanished. In place of the human figure, a yellow number 3 appeared.

Two green circled silhouettes remained. By counting from the bed he had just vacated, Allen was able to determine where the remaining green circled beds were. Two rows over and one bed down, Allen came upon Franklyn.

"Get away from me and stay away," Franklyn grumbled.

Allen shrugged and went to the remaining green circled cot. Curtiss was ready. He sprang to his feet and stretched. The little human figure in his pallet on the screen winked out and then a yellow number 3 appeared in its place.

"What's the matter with Candy Man?" Curtiss said.

Allen looked at his friend and laughed. "You're just asking that question now?"

Curtiss said, "We have to go, we want to find out what's going on, right?"

"Yeah," Allen replied. "Trojan Horse."

"Let's see if someone else wants to come in his place."

Raisin Face scrabbled off her cot and joined the two men. "Me," she said.

Franklyn refused to cooperate. Allen pleaded with him to change places with Raisin Face, but he refused to budge. Finally, the old lady came to him and raised her cane, and Franklyn responded. He moved to Raisin Face's cot and sat on the edge. A silhouette reappeared in her cot, and now all three green circled cots were empty, with a yellow 3 across each. The number 3 door clicked, and Curtiss walked slowly to it. It swung open at his touch. Allen and Raisin Face hobbled to join him.

They stood at the door and looked back.

"Doesn't Frank want to find his sister?" Curtiss said.

"Maybe he will," Allen sounded strangely unhappy. "He has to do things his own way, that's all. Irene will find him, or he'll find her ..." Allen tried to sound confident but he knew he was not succeeding. Before them stretched the long coldly-lit corridor.

"Good luck," someone called from the group that remained behind. In that moment, the people from Pigeon City were closer than ever before.

The trio nodded and waved, stepped into the corridor and the door swung shut behind them.

On the board, the three green circled beds winked out.

The screen cleared again and a film began. A white man beamed at the people. "Congratulations!" he shouted, and someone said, "It's that man from the Miss America."

"This group has been tested, and I believe there are now ..." The screen went blank and the computer flashed a huge number 73. The film immediately resumed: "... of you. Is that correct?" The happy announcer paused and looked directly and earnestly into the camera.

"Yes, that's right," someone called, and the glad-face man went on talking:

"It has been determined by our computers that you are best suited for ..." The film stopped again and the computer lit up the board with the words "Agriculture, Farming."

"Now," the announcer laid aside the sheaf of papers he had been holding. "Are there any among you (and please, don't be afraid) that do not wish to go?" He made the question sound more like a statement, and the people looked nervously at each other as his face slowly faded from the screen and the film ended.

The now familiar pattern of pallets with their little silhouettes reappeared on the scoreboard. Franklyn was certain that wherever his sister might be, Irene would not be likely to agree to go to a farm. He took a deep breath and got to his feet.

His silhouette winked out and an ugly red X began to appear across the vacated pallet. A yellow number 2 formed when the X was completed.

The hall was still. Franklyn wet his lips and began walking toward the door. It swung open at his touch and he stepped in without once looking back. When the door had swung shut behind him, he could hear the happy announcer voice resuming, and the occasional self-conscious cough of the others as they watched. The booming friendly voice grew fainter as Frank went down number 2 corridor. He could hear it stop one or two times, and he knew the computer was printing out special instructions.

He knew his sister would not go to a farm. She would have to be crazy to go along with that idea.

"Not Irene," he muttered to himself.

It occurred to him that he had never seen a white person except on eduvision, and he wondered what he would find at the end of hall number 2. He began to wish he had gone with Allen and the others.

"Do you think we did the right thing?" Curtiss said slowly. They were sitting in an anteroom at the end of number 3 corridor.

"This is a strange time to ask," Raisin Face scolded.

Curtiss watched Allen limp to the door and try it for the fourth time. It was still locked. On the other side they could hear what sounded like lots of office machinery. They had been able to go no farther, and now they were trying to be patient. Allen hobbled back and forth, and Curtiss stared at his hands.

The door opened, and a tall, beautiful black woman stood on the other side. Curtiss stared wide-eyed. She wore makeup and jewelry. Bracelets jangled on her arm as she greeted and motioned them in.

"Hello, come on," she laughed.

"Where'd you get those?" Curtiss said, staring at her bracelets as though the woman did not exist.

The tall lady laughed and said, "There'll be time for that later. Right now, there is someone that's waiting to meet you."

The group got to their feet and followed the statuesque woman through the door. She was the first person any of them could recall seeing, face to face, outside of Pigeon City. Allen glowered at her, full of hate and mistrust, but he limped along with the others. The machines they had heard on the other side of the door turned out to be teletypes. The room was full of them, and the floor seemed to vibrate with electric energy.

Capable and serious black men worked among the machines. They wore white coveralls. "Watch your step," their guide called as they picked their way through the machines.

"We're installing new equipment," she explained. The new arrivals nodded and moved along. This was the first time they had seen men working with machines. Allen would not relax.

"Where are you taking us?" he demanded.

"You'll see," the beautiful woman answered. She smiled radiantly. Allen grumbled, and she smiled even more.

"What's your name?" Curtiss asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I'm Carol."

Allen shot Curtiss a furious look, but Curt ignored him. They passed from the teletype room to a long hall, and Carol stopped before a series of elevators.

Their car stopped at the seventeenth level, and the group stepped into a large sunny office. Behind a tremendous desk sat Irene. She was looking through some papers, and when Allen, Curtiss and Raisin Face stepped into the office, she rose to greet them. The elevator doors closed behind them and Carol was gone.

"Irene!" Allen cried.

"You aren't really surprised are you?" she said and they all laughed.

"We're happy to see you," Raisin Face said. "Your brother is here somewhere, and he is looking for you."

"I know," Irene replied.

"You do?" Curtiss walked toward her desk.

For an answer, Irene handed Curtiss a computer printout. On it were listed the names of the reclaimed people from 112th Street. Allen looked impatiently over Curt's shoulder. They saw that their names were circled in green, along with Franklyn's.

"I hoped he would come with you," Irene said softly.

"Well, he didn't. He's as stubborn as he ever was."

"I know he didn't go to the farm," she sighed.

"The what?" Allen's face twisted and he snatched the printout from Curtiss.

"The farm," she said. "I know he didn't go through number 1 door, because I have a list of those names." She put her hand on a pile of papers. "He must be in number 2, but we're still waiting for word."

"What are you talking about?" Allen put his hands on her shoulders and shook her gently. "What are you doing here anyway?" Allen's eyes narrowed and he suddenly dropped his hands and stepped back. He looked at Irene coldly, and he would say no more.

"Oh, no," she said quickly. "Allen, Curtiss, you know me. You can trust me." She looked at Raisin Face but the old woman would not meet her eye.

"I would find Frank and help him, but I have no real power here. I dispense information, that's all: I... I indoctrinate." She looked at the group anxiously, but no one made a sound.

At last Curtiss said slowly, "Irene, where is your brother? Why does he need help?"

"We know he went into tunnel number 2, because number 3 is the one you came through, and you came through without him. We test arrivals, and the ones they call `Creatives' are green-lined and sent here."

Allen was slowly shaking his head. Irene continued:

"Number 1 tunnel is for the workers. They go to factories, farms and the like, and eventually they are recycled, distributed among compatible communities." She took a breath and looked thirstily at her old friends. They stared at her simply.

"What about number 2?" Raisin Face prodded.

"Number 2 is something else again," she replied cryptically. Allen exploded. "We know that!" he shouted. "What happened to your brother?"

Irene's lip trembled. "Allen, I ... please, Allen, won't you trust me?" She looked at them but their faces were hard. She seemed to shrug, and drawing on some inner strength, she pulled herself together before going on: "All I know for sure," she said, "is the number 2 corridor is a sort of obstacle course, and the number 2 area is a correction facility. The idea is, the people in 2 finish there and then go on to 3 or 1. Anything is possible, but I've never known anyone here in 3 to admit to a number 2 history." She turned and walked to the window. "I was going to intervene when I learned what had happened with Frank and Raisin Face but ..." She stopped talking and stood alone and small with her back to them. Her shoulders shook. Curtiss almost felt sorry for her, but he would not try to comfort her.

"You were going to intervene?" Raisin Face said.

"Yes," Irene replied. "But we only knew he went into number 2; you see, he never came out."

Franklyn was alone and scared. He knew he was supposed to go straight down the corridor and into the arms of what? Something that put red X's on beds? If the computer thought he would do that, then it had another think coming. Franklyn decided to go back.

He stood and listened at the door he had come through earlier, but he heard nothing on the other side. He tried to open the door, but it was sealed. He sat down and waited. He was hungry, but he would not eat. There were only a few pieces of candy left and he was determined to save them.

At last he heard voices at the other end of the corridor. They were coming for him! There was a metal ladder on the wall, and an air-conditioning vent. Franklyn scrambled up the ladder and swung the grate open. When the search party reached his end of the corridor, Franklyn lay behind the vent, watching them. They were black like him, but he did not find that reassuring. They were somehow different, as though they had a purpose. He waited and watched, not daring to breathe.

At last the strangers seemed satisfied, and Franklyn crawled away through the duct. By the time they exhausted every other possibility and came through the duct after him, he planned to be deep in another part of the building.

He scrabbled on his hands and knees for what seemed like hours. He had never been so tired in his life. His pants were torn, and only his fear of falling into unknown hands kept him going.

At last he felt he would go crazy if he had to crawl another inch. He wanted desperately to stand up. In the narrow conduit, he could barely move on his knees and hands without scraping his back. He began to look for a way out.

There were many openings, but most were in heavily traveled areas, or offices. It was becoming increasingly difficult to move quietly. A woman walked by a grate almost directly under his nose. She smelled good. Franklyn sniffed, judged, and concluded that her scent was like flowers. He closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them, the woman had stopped, and she was looking directly through the grate at him!

Their eyes seemed to lock, and then she turned and moved on as though she had never seen him. Franklyn waited until she was out of sight, and then, with his heart pounding, he swung open the grate and emerged. If that woman had seen him, why had she gone on? To get help? Of course! He had to get out of there!

Franklyn ran. He didn't know which way he was going or from which direction he had come. All he knew was that he was running.

A man with a white jacket stepped out in front of him.

"Hey!" he yelled, startled. But Franklyn spun and raced off in a new direction.

"Hey, Franklyn!" the stranger called.

"So they know my name!" Franklyn thought, and he ran even harder.

"Your sister is looking for you!" they called.

Franklyn laughed. "They won't get me to believe that," he panted. It seemed strange to him that no one was chasing him. He didn't know where he was going, so how could they? He could not shake the feeling that he was running into some sort of trap.

Irene led Curtiss, Allen and Raisin Face from her office and together they walked down the carpeted hall. Her step was quick and efficient; and her skirt went "flit, flit, flit" as she walked. Her head was high, a smile danced in the air around her.

"Damn," Allen said softly to Curtiss. "She acts like she's about to whistle."

Curtiss nodded sadly. "Hey Irene," he called. "What are you so glad about?"

"I'm just glad you're here," she said sunnily.

"Glad we're here?" Raisin Face shook her head.

The little group moved on. At last they arrived at two huge double doors. Irene turned and halted. The rest of them came to a stop beside her.

"Yes, I'm glad," she said sincerely. "I've been through this many times before, and it's always the same. At first everyone is suspicious. After you see what we have to show you in here," she paused and tapped the door confidently, "things will be different."

"Irene, you can't even find your own brother ..." Curtiss stopped himself but it was too late. Irene's lip trembled and her eyes shone. Raisin Face looked down at the carpet.

Allen intervened. "You know what he's trying to say, Irene. You want us to trust you, but you seem to have changed a hundred percent. You never dressed like this before. None of us did. You wear jewelry and makeup. You act so breezy and carefree. You seem to have forgotten everything. I would have expected you to be on our side no matter what. You're in a position to work with us, and help us, but instead you..." Allen choked and faltered.

"You expect us to trust you," Raisin Face said unhappily.

Irene's hand slid from the door and dropped to her side. "I'm sorry you think I work for Whitey," she said. "Fortunately, I'm able to prove how wrong you are. Unfortunately, it's you people that have done the forgetting. I've always been on the same side. It's too bad that you have to act so typical." She turned and looked squarely at Allen. "How could you forget?" she said wearily.

Allen hung his head and did not answer.

"People change, Irene," Curtiss mumbled.

"How right you are!" she replied. Then Irene swung open the doors.

The library was easily the most impressive thing they had seen since their arrival. Big, plush, and overflowing with the latest equipment and concepts, it took their breath away by virtue of its size alone. It seemed to be a city block wide by a city block long. Curtiss was the first to step in, and his feet sank into very thick carpeting. The floor sloped down at a gentle angle. Away on the far side of the room hung a huge eduvision screen.

The big board flashed status and data reports, new arrivals, numbers assigned or requested. Most of the figures and information meant nothing to Curt. The room stretching out before the board was filled with comfortable-looking swivel chairs, clustered in seemingly random groups of seven or eight. They were cubicles with low walls, but it was obvious that every chair on that sloping floor could be turned to face the great screen, now hanging winking and chattering, and for the most part ignored. There was an occasional earnest-looking black man or woman who would stop, look up at the board and jot down something, but almost every black, tan and yellow face was glued to one of the smaller, individual screens scattered around the room.

Curtiss became aware that Allen had stepped into the room, and the two of them hung just on the library side of the threshold, feeling conspicuous and clumsy. The walls were lined with multicolored rows and stacks of edutapes. They looked at each other, wanting to speak, but there was nothing to say.

They listened. Computers whirred quietly; it was a roomful of baby typewriters. They listened; pages flipped and paper rustled. The people in the cubicles were working with machines.

"This way, please," Irene said, walking briskly by them. Her voice was curiously deadened by the carpet, the walls, the very efficiency of that velvety atmosphere.

"Come on!" Raisin Face hissed as she caned her way in behind their guide.

"There is no need to whisper," Irene said airily. She seemed at home and unimpressed by the opulence that so overwhelmed the newcomers. Curtiss felt a twinge of envy; it was the same jealousy to which he had become accustomed those lonely summer mornings back on the roof with his pigeons.

He watched Irene as she selected a cubicle and offered them seats. "She's so confident," Curtiss thought to himself. He realized that Raisin Face had made a strong point when she said they were all behaving essentially the same way they always had. He looked at Allen, and saw that his friend was glaring at everyone and everything. He knew Allen was probably planning something at this very moment. And he recalled the way he himself had turned away from Irene in the hall and mumbled, "People change ..."

"Do they?" he suddenly said aloud, and Irene glanced at him. He had lost a friend. Maybe she would understand, he had been frightened, the surroundings, so totally unfamiliar...

"Please sit down," Irene said officially. Raisin Face eagerly took a seat. Her chair went "poshhh," and she grinned gummily.

Irene left them in the cubicle. "I'll he right back," she said. Her voice had lost all of the former sunny, breezy sparkle. Curtiss hung his head in shame and the rest of the group folded their hands on the table.

Irene returned with three or four tapes. Taking a chair at the head of the table she said, "I want you to see these, you will find that they explain themselves." She sounded like an eduvision announcer, and Curtiss wanted to weep.

A soft whistle sounded, and throughout the room, hundreds of chairs clicked as everyone turned to face the big board. The library assumed an auditorium aspect. Curtiss and the rest of his group followed suit. The screen went blank, paused, and flickered to life. It showed a hallway. It was narrow. The walls seemed to be metal. Thick yellow gas of the same type used in reclamation seethed and boiled along the floor of the corridor, evilly swirling. Allen and the others wrinkled their noses - remembering.

The camera seemed to be focusing on a shadowy figure somewhere in the gas. There was no sound; just the ever-clarifying image of what they now could see was a man. He was on a ladder. Clinging to a ladder and reaching for something over the rising mustard cloud of gas. His face, there was something about the panic in his eyes that wasn't exactly right. Something ... concentration. This trapped man was not giving in. Terrified, but unbeaten ...

Curtiss was the first to recognize Franklyn. He jumped to his feet and stared helplessly while the fugitive hung to the ladder and reached out toward what seemed to be an inverted brass flower in the middle of the ceiling. He reached and stretched. In his hand he held a lighted match. The flame was painfully small.

"What's he doing?" Curtiss cried.

"He's trying to set off the sprinkler system," Allen said softly from his chair.

The gas was rising. Franklyn turned to the camera, and he seemed to be shouting something. Suddenly, he released his perch and disappeared into the swirling, angry yellow clouds.

The screen went blank. There was a collective sigh throughout the room, and the board resumed its posting of information. The swivel chairs clicked again as people went back to their positions. Allen turned to Irene's chair. It was empty.

Curtiss was looking through the tapes Irene had left on the table. They were bundled together with an inch-wide plastistrip on which was printed: "Mass Reclamation." The individual reels were marked with neighborhoods. "Bedford Stuy" was one of the oldest; "Harlem" was the most recent.

"Let's see the Harlem tape," Raisin Face said when the bundle was passed to her.

"Do you know how to work these things?" Allen asked.

"I'll set them up for you." A voice had suddenly joined the group from behind. They whirled in their chairs, and Carol smiled a greeting, reaching for the tapes.

"Irene went to get her brother. He belongs in number 3 with us," she confided as their screen lit up with shots of last night's riot. There was Curtiss' smashed coop on the mechi-engine. The street was filled with familiar faces. They saw again the looting and breaking, the fire, and then finally, the people, all but two of them, frozen with fear at random places, the arrival of the mechivans, and the voice of a white narrator chanting hypnotically off camera: "This is the fate of the greedy, the ignorant and the destructive." The tape ended.

"Whitey," Allen whispered, and Carol smiled.

"Don't blame Whitey," she said. "Who are we supposed to blame? Ourselves?"

"No, Allen," Carol replied. "Why do you have to blame someone?" "You aren't for real, are you?" Curtiss began, but Allen put his hand on Curt's arm.

"Don't even bother to answer her, man," he said.

Carol smiled patiently. "Around the turn of the century, in the cities, do you know how many jobs the old 30-hour-a-week system had provided?"

Allen glared at her as though she were crazy.

"But you do know there were more make-work projects than there were real jobs? And you do know the cities were falling apart? The people were turning on and blaming each other. Nothing would stop them. It was and is the way of Nature."

Allen had been shifting restlessly in his seat, but he could stand it no longer. "The way of Nature!" he shouted. "Why don't you cut this out and let us know what the hell is going on?" He pounded the table with his .fist and the people in the cubicles around them stopped to watch with an amused sort of mild interest. Allen glared back at them.

"What are you supposed to be doing?" Allen said, and he suddenly reached across a cubicle wall, snatching a clipboard before his startled victim could react.

Allen began to leaf through the man's papers, and he was pleased to notice more and more people turning in their chairs to watch. He looked mischievously at Curt, and Curtiss was almost certain Allen's eyes sparkled with secret glee.

Carol nodded to the man from whom Allen had taken the board and he smiled wearily before turning around and resuming his work. Throughout the hall, everyone was going back to their projects. Allen stood, stunned and alone for a few seconds, and then he flopped to his chair still clutching the clipboard.

"Allen, please try to bear with us," Carol was saying.

"What is this place?" Allen muttered.

"Our library." Carol folded her arms and waited.

"What do you do here?" Allen looked up at her like a child.

"We receive tapes and store them, we annotate and dub them, and we write scripts for them."

Allen blinked and looked at Curtiss. Curtiss' eyes were wide.

"We know what approach is the most effective, having the same backgrounds," Carol said almost patriotically.

"You witch," Allen whispered. Carol continued. "If the people are satisfied to live in the ghetto, we let them. But the ones who aren't intimidated, who aren't satisfied to remain in their areas, who create some sort of disturbance - we bring them in and test them."

"Witch," Allen said a little louder, and his eyes were growing hot. Carol broke off and looked at him calmly. "Fascinating how you must hate," she murmured appreciatively. Allen rose in his chair and stared at her blindly.

"Would you like to see another tape?" Carol invited. She didn't wait for an answer. The small eduscreen was glowing again. Curtiss and Raisin Face watched. Allen pivoted stiffly and faced the screen.

There had been a disturbance of some sort. The camera showed a burned-out shell of a smoking building that seemed to have been a theater. A street sign showed the location to be "Queens Boulevard and 71st Avenue." People stood around dumbly waiting for assemblance. There were the familiar mechivans; the doors stood ajar.

Curtiss shuddered involuntarily, and then he looked, rubbed his eyes and looked again. These people were white! He hadn't noticed at first, perhaps it was because he was almost conditioned to seeing white people on eduvision, perhaps it was because the pattern of the negative reinforcement tapes was such a familiar one, but there they were, white people. And they were being reclaimed! A narrator began to speak off camera. The voice of a black woman, and she was saying: "This is the fate of the greedy, the ignorant, the selfish ..."

The tape ended. Curtiss sat stunned for a moment, and then he said, "That voice, that voice was familiar ..." and he looked up toward the ceiling.

Carol laughed. "I always wanted to be an actress," she said as though confessing a nice secret.

"Where are the white people taken?" Raisin Face asked timidly.

Carol paused and moistened her lips. She obviously enjoyed her job as narrator and guide. "Separate but equal facilities, Long Island City," she announced. Her eyes sparkled proudly.

Allen stood, looking off into space. "Never," he murmured. "I'll never go along with any of it." His eyes were going vacant.

Curtiss looked anxiously to Carol. "Will he be all right?" he asked. "Of course he'll be all right!" she snapped. "You, his best friend, should know it."

"I should?" Curtiss whispered. Allen looked blankly from one to the other.

"You know how he is," Carol said patiently. "We had no idea he would blow up a block of buildings and start a riot, but we've been watching him for a long time. Here we have the facilities Allen and the creatives like him need."

Allen's eyebrows went up, but he said nothing.

Carol watched him and smiled with satisfaction. "Yes," she went on. "Equipment, storerooms full of information, assistants, I could go on and on."

"I can do what I want?" Allen said suddenly.

"Sure you can," Carol replied. "You can even go back to your ghetto and try to liberate the people there, if you like. You would have to spend some time at the, what was it? The farm? But you can go back, or you can stay."

Allen looked undecided. Carol put her hands on his shoulders and looked steadily into his eyes. "We need you, Allen," she said. "We need your drive, your energy to help us run the city. You are a leader, and we want you. Will you stay and help?"

Curtiss wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Allen wink quickly before he replied. "Yes," he said at last.