|fatal flaws in a future world|
CREALLY LEEMLING—A Man. He was created in his
Maker's image, but not perfect . . . still human
enough to doubt, to probe dangerously close to the
ultimate secret of Creatoria ... to dare desire a
woman his world said did not, must not, could not
exist.
WENDY—A Woman. She was born, not made, a beau-
tiful vibrant creature filled with passions and pain . . .
a wonderful exotic sexual being ... a real, not ideal,
woman risking capture and death for one last love.
WEEMS—A Perfect. He was tall, imposing, a triumph
of genetic engineering and powerful as a god. Pos-
sessor of a shocking secret, he lacked all human flaws
—which made it easy for him to lie, scheme, and com-
mit cold-blooded murder. . . .

Books by Robert Lieberman:
BABY
GOOBERSVILLE BREAKDOWN
PARADISE REZONED
Films by Robert Lieberman:
FACES IN A FAMINE
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Perfect People
Robert Lieberman

 A DELL BOOK

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Copyright © 1986 by Robert Lieberman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or trans-
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For Allen MacNeill who, with his love of fantasy,
kept me going.
Special thanks to Don Smith for his help in Chicago,
Ithaca, and Bogota. To Alan Pike. And, needless to
say, to Gunilla, who helped me through yet another
last novel.

Perfect People

The corridor lights were still in the night mode as second-
rank Peace Monitor Creally Leemling hurried on his way
to work. Walking down a circumferential corridor, its cur-
vature disappearing into the near distance, he watched a
new day begin to dawn. The light was at first faint, barely
outlining a few puffy clouds projected out into the holosky
above. Then it began to increase in intensity, mimicking
perfectly the dawn of a terrestrial day except for one thing.
The color was wrong. It was green. A sharp bluish green
that caused Creally, despite his lingering sleepiness, to
laugh. For the first time in memory the Mainframe had
screwed up, giving the holosky the ghoulish cast of-»raw
plank.
Passing through an airlock that irised open at his ap-
proach, Creally reached the intersection of a radial corri-
dor and took a sharp left, heading to the ascendor that
would take him down to the eighth-level tube transport.
As he walked toward Creatoria's central core, he found
himself joined by other men and women, mostly Perfects,
hurrying to work. They were high-level government work-
ers, executives and accountants, the midlevel cream of
Creatorian society granted the rewards of spacious periph-
1

2
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
eral dwellings for service and dedication and just plain
hard work. Creally took a right turn back onto a periph-
eral and, as he continued his trek, the stream of people
joining him rapidly thickened, the sound of their hurried
footsteps and muffled voices layering itself on that hum-
ming medley of vibrating machinery and rushing air and
moving humanity that penetrated every crevice and in-
vested itself in the very life of the subterranean city.
Nearing the bank of ascendors that he knew lay just
beyond the peripheral's curvature, it suddenly occurred to
Creally that no matter where one was in Creatoria, one
could never see far. There were no vistas. Everything had
limits. Even on the most peripheral corridors where the
circumference was measured in tens of kilometers there
was always that gentle curve, limiting sight. Nowhere in
Creatoria, he thought, wedging himself into a packed as-
cendor that plunged dizzily into the Earth, nowhere can
you get any sense of distance.
The relevation continued to haunt Creally as he stood in
one of the silent orderly queues waiting for a capsule in the
tube station. Though hatched and raised in Creatoria—
having, in fact, spent his entire thirty-five-year existence
with but one exception in this vast metropolis beneath the
surface—Creally found himself this green morning forced
to view his city with new eyes. Creatoria, it dawned on him
as he climbed into a capsule and was whisked down a tube
at blinding speed, Creatoria was enormous in reality, enor-
mous but yet paradoxically small and limited in percep-
tion, the long view always obscured by a wall.
By the time Creally reached the government complexes
of Central Lambda sector, all he wanted was to get to his
office at P.M. Headquarters. The central corridors and
plazas were clogged with throngs of early-morning work-
ers, and Creally had to hug the walls just to keep from
being drawn away from his destination. Passing through
the endless series of holocon commercials assaulting him

PERFECT PEOPLE
3
in the long corridor, Creally jostled his way toward the
edge of the large government plaza. When he reached it, he
plunged without pause into the swirling crowds, the smell
of a thousand freshly sanitized and perfumed bodies
drowning his senses. Though not a disproportionately
short man, Creally was half a head shorter than any Per-
fect and he soon disappeared in the teeming mass, surfac-
ing only near the entrance to Headquarters where the
crowd thinned. As he neared the familiar double port, two
Toxes staggered into his path and, without giving them a
second thought, Creally gently nudged them aside.
At Headquarters Creally rode the high-speed ascendor
up to the third level. Passing Aarendeno in his booth, he
gave the dispatcher a quick nod.
"Hey, you're in early. What's up?" asked Aarendeno
with a big, toothy smile.
Creally gave a wave but hurried on, almost colliding
with another officer.
"Morning," said Sneeling. A third-rank P.M. from Vice,
Sneeling was something of a corridor rat who always
seemed to be hanging around Creally's Domestic Affairs
Division. Sneeling flashed his predatory smile and Creally
reciprocated, but kept moving until he reached his office.
At the port he hastily punched in.
"Hi, boss," said a passing young female Perfect. She was
one of the rookies who had just been assigned to Creally's
squad, and one of the best-looking Perfects he had seen in
years. "Did you see? A green morning!" she exclaimed.
"Look, I can't talk now," he said. "Catch you later,
okay?" And as his port swished open, he quickly slipped
into his office, leaving her behind in the hallway.
In an instant Creally was leaning over his console, bring-
ing his holocon up online.
"Punch up last night's log in total," he ordered, "and
make it snappy,"
clearance granted, responded the holocon, identify-
ing Creally by his voice.

4
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
Creally slumped down and waited.
"Come on. Come on," he said, drumming his fingers
impatiently on the console. "What's taking so long?"
assembling
"Don't give me that plooma. Just spit it out. Hurry up."
A moment later the file was projected out into the space
above the desk and Creally's eyes eagerly swept down the
list. As usual the log was littered with domestic com-
plaints. There were numerous cases of offspring abandon-
ment and disputes between neighbors, claims of mate de-
sertion, and reports of spring abuse. Also recorded were
incidents of voucher fraud, tobacco plants found growing
under a light in a swanky level-7 dwelling, and mention of
intoxicants being seized in an early-morning raid. A young
boy-spring was reported missing from Central Eta sector;
P.M. Headquarters was still looking for a twenty-six-year-
old Nearly Perfect for questioning in regard to an alleged
double mating case; another Nearly Perfect had tried to
force his way onto a suborbital transport. None of it, how-
ever, was what Creally was looking for. As he continued to
scan the reports of antisocial behavior and petty crimes, he
suddenly stopped. There it was. Buried innocuously almost
at the end of the file. Another incident at a solar farm on
the fringe of the North American desert. And it matched
all the others that had occurred over a period now stretch-
ing more than three terrestrial months: the damage not
only in the same district and on the same farm, but also
limited to precisely the same four sections of domes. Some-
thing very strange was certainly going on out there. Plac-
ing his finger on the appropriate menu line, Creally again
addressed his holocon.
"Give me the detailed report," he said.
The holocon flashed red. not domestic affairs.
"Override," he ordered, and was presented with the
three-dimensional image of a damaged dome. There was a
jagged hole in the dome's hard, crystalline surface. Lo-
cated just above ground level, it was crudely circular and

PERFECT PEOPLE
5
looked to be fifty, maybe sixty centimeters in diameter
from edge to shattered edge—just like all the others.
"Next. Next." Creally visually thumbed through the dif-
ferent shots. "Next . . . and next. . . . Good . . .
good," he said, feeling pleased with himself. It was this,
this heightened anticipation of another incident, that had,
in fact, gotten him up so early; this that had prompted him
to fight the early rush-hour crowds when rank allowed him
a more leisurely entry. Of course, this whole matter was
well out of his jurisdiction, had absolutely nothing to do
with him. None of his lousy business, as Veena might say.
Yet there was something about these incidents that, when
he had first discovered them in the nightly logs, had
grabbed him, had piqued his curiosity, had grown to near
obsession. What was it that vexed him? Perhaps the pat-
tern. Its nonrandomness. The ruptures always near a seam.
Always at ground level. Always about the same size and
shape and always occurring at night. And always, always
in a dome filled with plank, never one of the empties. Who
or what in the world could be doing it?
Creally leaned far back in his seat and let out a big
yawn. No, it was not just the pattern but probably the fact
that the whole affair remained studiously unnoticed by
anyone else on the Force. Those who should have cared.
Those on outpost duty. The people in Fraud. Or Theft.
Not even Weems, who ran the whole show, seemed con-
cerned. Perhaps it's this, thought Creally, staring at the
image of the shattered dome, this neglect, this indifference,
that keeps tugging at me. Or is it just an excuse to break
routine? Was he bored? Flank, yes! But he had been bored
before. Countless times. There were days when, faced with
the seemingly endless onslaught of spring abuse cases,
Creally thought he would go out of his skull. Yet he had
dutifully kept plugging on. So why was he worrying now
about a solar farm a continent away? No, boredom wasn't
the answer. It was more. Perhaps an inkling of change.
Something was going on out there. He knew it. Just knew

6
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
it. Yet . . . yet, after fifteen years on the Force, he also
knew better than to open his mouth. It could bring him
nothing but trouble—and he surely had had enough of that
already. For a moment longer Creally debated back and
forth with himself. Then, before he could change his mind,
he went with his gut decision.
"I want all similar incidents assembled. Place them in
reverse chronological order and"-—he took a deep breath
—"and transfer the file to first-rank P.M. Weems. Also,
request entry clearance for me. ASAP."
ASSEMBLING
Rising from his seat, Creally stretched and rubbed his
neck. That irksome point between his shoulders at the top
of his spine was giving him trouble again. While he waited
for a signal from the chief, he reached over to his console,
brought the stima spigot to his lips, and took a deep draft
of the warm, mildly sweet gas. Within seconds he could
feel the stimulant surging through his body, his heart pick-
ing up speed, his skin starting to tingle. Last night had
been misery. He had tossed and turned, awakening in the
morning groggy and exhausted. The last thing in the world
he wanted was for Weems to see him blitzed like this. The
stima got Creally going, but it gave him a false sense of
alertness, masking the stubborn lethargy that hung over
him like a veil. Insomnia. That, he thought to himself, was
one of the curses of being a Nearly Perfect. Like Veena and
her monthly bleedings.
Creally paced his office waiting for Weems. Damn, he
thought, what in the Creator's name is wrong with me? Was
he, C. forbid, starting to go erratic? Or was it age? Depres-
sion? Whatever it was, he knew he had to keep it to him-
self, buried deep, invulnerable even to the probings of the
vleemer as it ostensibly exercised his body but—as any
high-level P.M. knew—kept sampling his thoughts.
Minutes later, a green-admit flashing on his holocon
woke Creally from his reverie. After a quick second draft

PERFECT PEOPLE
7
of stima, he walked down the long radial corridor leading
to the chief's office, slowing his stride to calm himself.
At the open port he stopped. Weems sat at his console,
absorbed in work, tall and imposing even seated. The
chief's features had "Perfect" written all over them: high
cheeks; small nose; large almond eyes; lips full, but not too
full; ears unobtrusive and flat against his head—not like
Creally's. Nor did he ever slouch. Dressed in a fresh, pale-
blue skin Weems looked like a model taken right out of
those holocommercials—the sleek, silky fabric covering his
broad shoulders and muscle-rippled body as if he had been
hatched with it on. By contrast, Creally's skins always
seemed to hang askew at some point on his compact frame.
Standing by the door, Creally self-consciously straightened
his garb and, with a few quick pats, smoothed down his
hair. He knew that he often went about his business with a
patch of hair standing on end, making him look more like
a frazzled rooster than a high-level P.M.
Looking up, Weems spotted Creally.
"Don't just stand there, Creally," he gestured with a
quick nod, "Come in."
Attempting a smile, Creally entered the large, plush of-
fice. Inside the air was cool and there was a hint of fra-
grance. On the wall hung a large tapestry, the silvered
visage of the Creator embedded in its thick, burgundy pile.
"Sit down." Weems motioned to an air-recliner that slid
up to the console at his beckon. "I'm in the middle of
something. Be with you in a second." He turned back to
his holocon, waving his finger in the air to rearrange the
text. Creally remained standing, waiting, trying to deci-
pher the display as it hung in the air above the console.
"Take a load off your feet," said Weems, catching him in
the act and smiling. The smile, as ever, was neither smug
nor false. Creally had never seen these features reflect an-
ger or malice or despair. To Creally, the chief's face,
flushed with its golden glow, seemed to epitomize that final

8
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
generation of people, those true Perfects, who had reached
a level of emotional control he could only envy.
Weems cleared his holocon.
"So tell me," he asked. "What's up? What's so urgent?"
"Nothing urgent, really. Just . . . Well . . ." Despite
himself, Creally fumbled for words.
"Then what's this ASAP business?" Weems took a good
second look at him. "Hey, what's the matter? You look
tired. Come on, Creally. Out with it. I know you well
enough. What's your trouble?"
Positioning the back of the recliner, Creally sank into its
softness with a grunt. Weems looked askance at him.
"No trouble. Nothing except this flanking neck of
mine." Creally squirmed, trying to relax. Even after all
these years he never felt completely comfortable in
Weems's presence—or probably any other Perfect's.
"You should have it looked after," said Weems, sound-
ing solicitous.
"You kidding? You know how many times I've been to
the soma stations? How many quacks I've tried over the
years? Naw." He arched his back and grimaced. "Looks
like I'm stuck with it, sir."
"Ah, the curse of the Nearly Perfect."
"Come on, don't rub it in," Creally forced a laugh. He
was sweating, he realized, and wondered if it was showing.
"It was really just a joke," said the chief. It was an
unnecessary thing to say, but Weems, like any other decent
Perfect, always went to extraordinary lengths not to offend
those less fortunate than he—especially Nearly Perfects.
"Seriously, there's no need to suffer. You ought to go down
to the infirmary. Give our new somatron a try. It's state-
of-the-art, so they tell me. And our new somatist, Doc
Waaber, is supposed to be a genius."
"He may well be, but I'm not going to let that thing
carve me up," Creally laughed.
"Suit yourself. Sneeling seems to think it works."
"Sneeling/' he muttered.

PERFECT PEOPLE
9
"Well, he used to have a real shoulder problem. The doc
had the somatron install a new shoulder and today it's
better than any Perfect's. Matter of fact, Sneeling swears it
made him a new man."
"Take more than a shoulder to make Sneeling a new
man," said Creally, and immediately regretted opening his
mouth. "Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about my
neck."
"Yes. So I gathered. The solar farm," Weems prompted.
"You saw the assemblage?"
"Certainly."
"Doesn't it strike you as odd?"
"No. What really strikes me as odd is that you're even
concerned with something like this. Don't you have
enough work as it is?"
Creally didn't answer.
"Look, Creally, your job is protecting little springs,
keeping them from being abused or neglected—and you're
darn good at it—not worrying about some nonsense conti-
nents away."
Silence. Creally could feel the sweat beginning to trickle
down his side. It was so quiet he could hear the recycled
air hissing in through the louvres above Weems's console.
"Sir, I've got a hunch something extraordinary's going
on out there."
"Fine. I'll have someone look into it."
"No. Let me do it."
Weems raised an eyebrow, then smiled a big, indulgent
smile that irritated Creally.
"Creally, you're understaffed in Domestics as it is. I
can't have you boosting off—"
"Someone can cover for me."
"Who?"
"Let Sneeling. He's always wanted my job. Let him try
it on for size."
"He's assigned elsewhere."
"Then Moorty. She's—"

10
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Not enough experience. She can't head a squad."
Creally licked his lips and swallowed. He wondered why
Weems was being so difficult when a simple yes would
suffice.
"Look, sir, I've been following the reports for over a
month now. I think it's serious. I'd like to find out what's
behind it."
"It could just be an animal."
"No animal of any size lives on the outside."
"So it's a disgruntled worker."
"They're all Perfects."
"Perfects can go erratic. Why, I remember a case about
two years ago—"
"Sir, in the last months there have been three different
teams of workers out there. All of them Perfects. All of
them with high-level clearances. You're not going to tell
me that there are three different—"
"Creally, what is it you want from me?"
"Permission, sir. Permission to boost over there and
poke around a little."
Silence.
"Look, I'll do it on vacation time, okay?" Creally tried a
different tack.
"What vacation? The vacation you lost?"
"All right, all right," Creally conceded, recalling the
reprimand and vacation penalty. "Then—"
"Then what? Look, the reason you've been in trouble
lately is that you've gotten too involved in your cases.
You're doing the same thing again. Only this isn't even
your case. And when you get into trouble, I get into trou-
ble. And believe me, I've got enough of that."
"Okay. Then I'll go on my own, on my own time and at
my own expense. I think it's my duty to go, sir."
"And of course you've discussed this with Veena. Natu-
rally she has agreed to let you forgo salary. Pay for the
boost. For a craft on the other end. A—"
"It doesn't concern her. This is my work."

PERFECT PEOPLE
11
"No, it's not your work. And it's not your job, or your
jurisdiction. You know that as well as I do."
Silence. Weems leaned back and, steepling his fingers,
stared up at the ceiling as if gathering himself. For a long
moment Creally waited, watched. He saw a tiny twitch, a
tic at the corner of the chief's mouth. Weems had a tic. A
human tic. A trace of imperfection where only perfection
was supposed to reside. The chief shifted his eyes back
down at Creally.
"Okay," he said quietly.
"Okay what?"
"You're assigned. You can go."
"Can go?" echoed Creally incredulously. "Just like that?
You mean—"
"No. Not without conditions. First, regardless of what
you find, I want you back here in five days. That's all you
have. And I don't want to hear anything more about it.
Five days."
"Creatorian days or solar days?"
"Come on, Creally. Give me a break. Five days. Days.
Our days. Also, you report back to me. Personally. Daily.
Understand?" The corner of Weems's mouth was twitch-
ing madly and Creally could hardly keep his eyes off it.
"Understood," said Creally, getting up.
"Fine. Now, do me a favor. Take that plooma-eating
grin off your face and disappear."
"Right, sir. You won't regret this." Creally was already
making for the port.
"What do you mean, I won't? I already regret it."
"Don't worry," said Creally. "My ass is on the line,
too." And he tried not to smile as he hurried out the port.

After holding a quick morning briefing with his Domestic
Squad, Creally left his assistant Moorty in charge and
headed for the tube station and home.
Outside in the corridors the day was corrected, the noon
light amber, the ceiling a high faint blue streaked by long
whisps of white, a touch of autumn in the air. For the first
time in as long as he could remember, Creally felt alive and
excited, though he found himself at a bit of a loss to ex-
plain it. Just because he was getting out? he wondered,
standing impatiently at an airlock, waiting for it to open. It
was less than a month before Creation Day and even the
areas away from the central districts were crowded with
shoppers—-Perfects and Nearly Perfects with their little
Perfect offspring in tow—clogging the ascendors, moving
briskly along the halls in dense but hushed crowds, the
only sounds being the high-voiced whispers of the springs,
the faint chorus of clearance bleeps coming from the
airlocks, the swish and hum of sliding ports, ascendors
rising and falling in the busy pie-shaped sectors of the In-
frastructure.
Creally walked along the curved eighth-level corridor
leading to the tube station. In the cross corridor behind
him, he heard the high-pitched beeps of an ambulance
moving down the red-streaked emergency lane, its strobes
flashing. In front of him, a trio of Zeroes was trying to
wash down the permaplast walls with a wet-vac. Tracing
out crazy, overlapping patterns that covered spots twice
and missed others, they were making a mess of things. As
2

PERFECT PEOPLE
13
Creally passed through their puddles, he found himself
laughing at what would ordinarily have irritated him.
When he finally got to the station, there was only a single
capsule left and a middle-aged man who looked like a Per-
fect was hoisting a heavy kit into it. He must have noticed
the disappointed look on Creally's face, because he called
to him.
"Which way you boosted?"
"Peripheral Upsilon sector. Around corridor two thirty-
five."
"I'm going over to central Chi. If you don't mind a little
detour, we can share a capsule."
Creally hesitated. Then he noticed that the man had a
slight bump on his nose. So, he isn't a Perfect, thought
Creally.
"I'd appreciate it. If it's no trouble?"
"No trouble at all," the man waved Creally in. "In fact,
I'm glad for the company."
Creally entered the capsule. The stranger punched in his
coordinates, and the unit sealed itself, then eased forward
into the vacuum tunnel.
"Geez, I've been on the boost so long my ears don't even
pop any more," said the man, trying to adjust to the pres-
sure as they waited for the congested transport system to
give their capsule clearance. Ahead of them, at the en-
trance to an express radial, stood three other capsules
awaiting their turn. "Four weeks. Four weeks on the boost
out in the boonies."
"That's a long time," said Creally, trying to make small
talk.
"You can say that again. But that's the nature of the
beast. I'm in business. A salesman," said the man. Their
capsule pulled forward, moving up another notch in the
queue. "Domes. Take care of sales and installation, actu-
ally. Used to cover maintenance too but—"
"Domes?" repeated Creally, his interest heightened.
"What kind of domes?"

14
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Any kind. You name it. For sporting events, farms,
craft races. We also sell a whole new line of hermetic
domes used for storing plank, processing, fermentation.
You must have heard of our outfit—Creatorian Domes
Ltd."
"No, I can't say I have. Of course, I'm not in the busi-
ness," explained Creally, and couldn't help but wonder at
the coincidence of the meeting.
"Well, we're by far the biggest. Founded almost two cen-
turies ago by the Creator of Creators Himself." The man
reverently made the sign of the helix with his index finger.
"That so?" Creally feigned an interested smile.
"Leaders in the industry," the man went on effusively.
"Fact of the matter is, we sell more domes than all the
other companies combined. Of course, I'm just a little
plankton in a sea of dome salesmen," he said with trans-
parent modesty. "But I'll tell you, I sure hold up my end of
the quota. Even got a sales award last year."
"No kidding."
"Me and the mate got a whole new sanitizer. Free!"
"Wow!" said Creally. "Tell me, what do you know about
solar domes?"
"Solar domes?" he laughed. "Why, that's my specialty!
What do you want to know? Just ask me."
"You know anything about the farms at the edge of the
Great Desert?"
"Which edge?" he asked as the capsule, now at the head
of the queue, stood poised while a seemingly endless line of
linked capsules whizzed past, heading out to the periph-
eries. "Will you look at this traffic. What a ploomy mess!"
"Let's say the northeast edge," said Creally, trying to
sound casual.
"Huh? Oh, right, northeast. Yeah, that's part of my ter-
ritory. Fact is, I cover almost a fourth of our two hundred
eighteen outposts. Even helped with the design of those
domes. They're continuous-edge modules, actually con-
structed as a series of semicylindrical—- Hey, how come

PERFECT PEOPLE
15
you're asking me about those domes?" The man suddenly
turned to take a closer look at Creally.
Creally shrugged and feigned an amiable smile.
"Whoops, here we go," he said as their capsule lurched
forward into the tube, rapidly picking up speed and linking
up to the end of the train. Behind them, other capsules
were pulling up ana linking to their rear.
For a long moment they traveled in silence, the only
sound in the capsule the steady whoosh as the transport
flew above the magnetic track. The silence seemed to make
the man edgy and he again filled it with talk.
"Oh, man," he said, stretching expansively, "will I ever
be glad to get back home. Back to my old lady. Oh, you
should see her. We were mated eighteen years ago and she
looks as good today as she did then. What a dream! She's a
Perfect, you know," he said, more than proudly. "Oh, yes.
Back home to some good, home-cooked plank. My own
recliner. Back to the old . . . errr . . . flanker." He gave
Creally a knowing wink.
"Yeah, I know what you mean," said Creally, who really
didn't, since he had never been away from his mate for
more than a day.
"Holy C., you should see some of the dives I've stayed
in. Talk about remote! And the people. Perfects acting like
animals. Doing everything but hanging from their tails.
Doing—well, even having," he whispered with a conspira-
torial snicker, "bodily sex."
Creally raised an eyebrow. He didn't know about the
outposts, but in his job he had certainly learned enough
about bodily sex to last a lifetime. It was the kind of dis-
gusting thing one kept running into among confused ado-
lescents, even among the Toxes and low-lifes who should
know better. The one thing that Creally couldn't quite un-
derstand was why, when one could experience the ecstacies
of flanking, anyone would stoop to that.
"And that's not all," added the salesman, relishing the
look on Creally's face. "Those so-called Perfects out there

16
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
are downing intoxicants like Beta sector Toxes. Drinking
and smoking and brawling. You know, I saw a guy actually
haul off and slug some poor sucker in the face!"
"Sounds like a real picnic."
"I'm telling you, they're crazy out there. Thank C.
that's over with for me, for a while at least. I'm back for a
good three weeks' leave. A little dose of civilization and
sanity, you might say. And when you come right down to
it . . . Well, let's face it. Nothing beats your own flanker
and your own little mate, right?"
"Right you are. ... By the way, those farm domes
you installed." Creally tried to bring him back to his ear-
lier question.
"Yeah, what about them?"
"How tough are they?"
"Real tough," said the man. The capsule in front of
them delinked and was spun off into one of the early cir-
cumferential tributaries of Chi, their own unit taking up
the slack and relinking. "Those shells are able to withstand
wallops of better than sixty Newtons per square—Hey,
what's with all the questions?"
"Oh, just interested in domes in general."
"So why are you asking me about farm domes? About
the desert domes?" The salesman's smile was gone. A mix-
ture of fear and suspicion lined his face, making him sud-
denly look old and weary.
"Well, they're of the type—"
"You didn't even know the type. You had to ask me.
Hey, you know about the holes, don't you?"
Creally stayed silent.
"Oh, plooma! Me and my big mouth. Let me off this
capsule. I've got to get to a holocon to report this."
"Relax," said Creally, taking out his memex badge.
"Holy Creator! A P.M.," the man rolled his eyes to the
top of the capsule. "Now I'm really flanked. All my years
of hard work down the deploomer. Zeroed out at age
forty-five. Back to lousy zero!"

17
PERFECT PEOPLE
"Calm down," said Creally, putting a hand on the man's
arm. "It's no crime to talk about your work. I just want to
ask you a few questions, that's all."
As he came around the corner, Creally felt his heart sink.
The port to his dwelling was open. Veena was home, his
plans to sneak out and leave her a message scuttled. Then
he remembered. She was on late shift at the pharmacy. He
would have to face her.
Creally slowed his pace, dragged his heels, looked
around. Fifth level, outer Upsilon, he reminded himself. A
modern sector. A deep level. A spacious dwelling with
walls whose taper was hardly noticeable. By all standards
they had made it, the two of them. So why did he suddenly
feel so lousy?
This time, the open port irked him. A locked port may
have meant a locked heart, but there were times when he
craved a corner to hide in, a door that stayed shut. As he
approached, he could tell from the tone of Veena's voice
that she was on the holocon. As usual, she was yakking
with her co-worker Eleedora.
". . . And last night, while we were out shopping in Xi
sector, we saw the cutest little boy-spring you ever did see.
You know, A-seven nose, those big broad type-four cheeks.
A real dream craft ..."
As Creally stood by the door listening, it suddenly oc-
3

18
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
curred to him that he was always standing outside like
this, looking in at the world.
". . . and Creally turned to me and said, That's what I
want. A boy-spring like that!' "
"Oh, what a wonderful mate you've got," gushed Eleey,
listening excitedly to what Creally knew was sheer fabrica-
tion.
"Then Creally took me in his arms and said, 'You know,
darling, I can hardly wait. Another four months and we'll
have him. Our own boy-spring.' "
Eleey cooed and Creally felt a wave of pity. It was a lie.
A sad lie. Sure he wanted the kid. He liked kids. But it
wasn't like that. She had been in one of her postdrug let-
downs and he had tried to comfort her. Nothing more.
Those lousy drugs. That bitch Eleey kept encouraging
Veena to sample everything she prescribed. "Now, how
can you intelligently prescribe something you haven't even
tried?" So Creally, coming home from work, could never
be sure what Veena would be there to greet him—euphoric
Veena or depressed Veena, giddy or dreamy.
"Tonight, after I get off work, Creally's going with me
over to the hatchery. To have another look at him."
Bad news, thought Creally, and stepped in. Hearing him,
Veena spun around.
"Creally! How come you're home?"
Creally looked at her. Her face was puffy. There were
bags under her eyes. Deep furrows ran down to the corners
of her mouth.
"I came home early," he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
"Early?" She looked anxious, but when she turned back
to the holocon there was a smile on her face. "It's
Creally," she said. "He's back early. ... I was just talk-
ing to Eleey," she said for his benefit.
"I can see," he mumbled.
"Well, at least say hello."
He stepped forward and waved. "Hi, Eleey." You dumb
broad, he thought.

PERFECT PEOPLE
19
"Creator bless you," she waved back with a smile. She
was a religious woman and never seemed to miss an oppor-
tunity to bless someone. "How come you're back home
early?" She was also a nosy womb.
Ignoring the question, Creally stepped out of range.
"I've got to talk to you," he whispered to Veena.
"Hey, I've got to run," Veena said to her. "Got to feed
my starving mate."
"Sure. See you at work," said Eleey, and her image
faded.
Veena turned to him. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing serious," he feigned a smile that hung false on
his face. "In fact, it's good news."
"Something's wrong," she said, her mouth turning
down into a pout, the furrows of her face deepening.
He didn't answer.
"What is it this time? Is it that lousy solar farm business
again? It is, isn't it?" she snapped. "Isn't it?"
"Well—"
"You told Weems, didn't you?"
"I'm starved." He looked toward the kitchen console.
"Got any lunch?"
"You did, didn't you? It wasn't enough that you told
me. It wasn't enough that you overrode your holocon,
went snooping around outside your jurisdiction? You think
no one's going to pick that up?"
Creally drew a deep breath and let it out. "There was
another incident. Last night."
"So what! It doesn't concern you. Is the whole flanking
world your business? Your job is springs. C.'s sake, stick to
it!"
Creally stared at her in silence. He was thinking of his
parents, how they had treated each other, cared for each
other.
Veena must have noticed the look on his face, because
she suddenly softened. "Creally, please," she pleaded, tak-

20
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
ing a different tack. "Listen to me. You were in trouble
already—"
"I wasn't. I—"
"You botched a case."
"I didn't botch anything."
"You meddled. That's just as bad. Worse," she said, re-
ferring to the abandonment case where Creally had taken
it upon himself to sneak a girl-spring back to her parents.
"I couldn't see turning them in. I had to do what I felt
was right, that's all."
"Right for who?"
"Right for me."
"And what about me? Us?"
"I was thinking about us. But I just had to—"
"You were playing almighty Creator again. That's what
you were doing and everybody on the Force knew it."
"Look, it's all forgotten by now."
"Perfects never forget. They probably have a whole dos-
sier on you. I wouldn't be surprised if it went all the way to
the Ultimate Board."
"Oh, come on! Now you're getting ridiculous," he
forced a laugh. "Anyway, I spoke to Weems this morning
and he didn't mention a word of it. In fact"—Creally tried
to sound upbeat—"he wants me to go out to the solar farm
to look things over."
"Oh, Creator of Creators!" she moaned, slumping down.
"I can just see what's going to happen."
"No, you can't!" Creally shouted, then caught himself.
He went to the port and punched it closed.
"You're going to go on your trip all right. And when
you get back, they're going to zero you out, zero you out
with a smile on their perfect faces. And me, I'll be stuck
with a Zero on my hands. We'll never get our boy-spring."
"No, you're wrong," he said, approaching her. "Look."
He placed a hand on her shoulder. "It could all work out
beautifully. I've got a hunch. If it pays off, my record will
be clean. I'll get a raise. We'll probably even get a couple of

PERFECT PEOPLE
21
springs. Now, how would you like that?" he said hope-
fully. "Huh?"
"Oh, cut the plooma!" she shrugged off his hand and he
was astonished to see tears forming in her eyes.
"Try to understand," he pleaded. "I can't keep doing the
same garbage. I need a change."
Veena didn't answer. He watched her pull a vial out of
her pocket but felt helpless to stop her. She popped two
small pink pills into her mouth, then held some out to him
in the palm of her hand. "Here. Take these. They'll mellow
you out."
"I don't need to be mellowed out! That's not what I
need. I need to do something, to try something, to make a
change. I have this crazy feeling like I don't belong here
any more." He turned away to look at the wall. "This
feeling that everything's falling apart, but nobody, nobody
but me, seems to notice it. It's as if everybody's too busy
smiling. But me, I see it. All these hurt kids. All these
Toxes and Zeroes floating around. And I'm supposed to
keep arresting more people? Making more Zeroes? That's
not why I became a P.M." Creally turned to look back at
Veena. "You listening?"
"Sure, I'm listening," she answered, staring at him with
widened pupils.
"And it's not just my job. People don't talk. They don't
really care about each other. Even the plank doesn't taste
like anything. Everybody smiles, but nobody laughs. Do
you understand what I'm trying to say?"
"Of course, dear," she smiled indulgently. "Here. Take
a couple of these," she said, offering the pills again. "You'll
feel much better."
Creally slumped down on the recliner and closed his
eyes. In the background he could hear Veena cooing to
herself, but soon he drifted off to sleep. It was a deep,
peaceful sleep filled with dreams in which he saw himself
wandering about outside Creatoria. He dreamed about his

22
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
father, a field mineralogist, who once, when Creally was a
little boy-spring, had taken him along on a trip far beyond
the buried discs of the Infrastructure. In his dream,
Creally was again with his father and they were out in the
midst of a vast and arid plain where there was a real moon,
and sun, and a wind that stirred dust and sparse vegeta-
tion. It was exactly like the day of their trip when he had
discovered, half buried in the sand, a thin sliver of cor-
roded metal. In his dream he could still recall how his
father had explained that it looked like it came from an
instrument called a "razor," which the early Imperfects
had used to remove the hair from their faces.
In life, Creally's father had been an introspective man
given to long periods of quiet rumination, but in this
strange dream his father, holding his hand, was talking to
him at length. He was apparently speaking in Olderage
because Creally couldn't make sense of any of it. His father
kept repeating the same words: "Hickory Dickory Dock,
Hickory Dickory Dock . . ." The syllables seemed like
nonsense but Creally, in his dream, remained convinced
that his father was trying to warn him. What? What is it?
Creally tried to ask his father, but the man had suddenly
left his side and was skimming like a hovercraft across the
endless plain. Creally tried to chase him, but his father
disappeared over the horizon and only his words remained
trailing on the wind. "Hickory Dickory Dock . . ."
Then Creally's brother Peleedoro, whom he hadn't seen
since adolescence, suddenly appeared. It was ridiculous
since he had boosted off on one of the Creator's coloniza-
tion ships, gone to Alpha-Manurii in a convoy with a thou-
sand other pilgrims. Alpha-Manurii was more than a hun-
dred light-years away and, though Peleey would never
reach it in his lifetime, he had gone with the expectation
that his off-offspring would and that had been enough for
him.
In Creally's dream, Peleey was trying to speak to him.
He was standing on the crowded deck of a pilgrim trans-

PERFECT PEOPLE
23
port, packed in a mob of other colonists. The noise was
deafening and Peleey was shouting to be heard above the
din. Creally strained to listen, but he couldn't make out
what he was saying.
"Louder!" Creally shouted to his brother. "I can't hear
you!"
Peleey tried again and again, but all Creally could finally
catch were four words: "There's more out there." And
then his brother and the other pilgrims were gone.
By the time Creally awoke from his nap, Veena had al-
ready gone off to work. Sitting up in the recliner, he felt
surprisingly refreshed. It was the first good sleep he had
had in ages. Checking the timepiece on his wrist, an heir-
loom from his father, he saw that he still had a good hour
before his afternoon departure. After sliding out of his
skin, Creally took a quick draft of stima and stepped into
the sanitizing compartment. Within a minute he was
deploomed, steamed, and deodorized, every crease and
fold and orifice of his body efficiently rinsed by the sani-
tizer's artificial mist. There's nothing like a good deploom-
ing before starting off on an adventure, he thought, feeling
his good humor returning, the morning's pointless argu-
ment with Veena pushed aside. Those poor, tight-assed Per-
fects with their hard little nuggets don't know what they're
missing, he laughed.
Creally stepped out of the compartment and padded
over to the kitchen area. Veena had left him some plank
warming by the console and, seeing it, he was touched by a
twinge of regret. Waiting on the holocon was a message:
"Don't boost off without lunch," said Veena's image.
"You know what a mood it puts you in when you miss a
meal. I left you some seeta-flavored plank soup. You may
have to add a little moisture. And, well—sorry about what
I said. I didn't quite mean it. I know you didn't really
botch the case. You just did what you thought was right.
This time—well, just be careful, okay? And don't forget to

24
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
pack a radiation suit!" Stretching out her hands as if grasp-
ing his shoulders, she uttered, "Be One," then faded.
Creally poured himself some simmering plank and, tak-
ing his dish with him, padded over to the vleemer that
stood awaiting him at the far side of the living room. For
an instant he hesitated, then pulled the vleemscan down
over his head. Activating the helmet, he stood there slurp-
ing up his plank as the vleemer's beam put him through his
paces, the unit checking the condition of each muscle, ton-
ing up the groups that needed it, a short series of isometric
pulses moving systematically up his body, calves, buttocks,
stomach . . .
Standing there finishing off the remains of his liquid
plank, Creally instinctively tried to deaden his mind as he
thought he felt the beam probe his outer thoughts, picking
its way through the daily tangle of mundane concerns and
fears and doubts, looking for erratic tendencies or illegal
behavior like tox abuse or voucher fraud. It's here that they
could conveniently zero you out, he fleetingly thought, zero
you out and you d never know it. And then he let his mind
dwell on the condition of his body, concentrating on the
not-unpleasant sensation of his pumped up pectorals until,
thoroughly vleemed, he emerged from the helmet.
After hastily throwing some skins and boots into a
travel kit, he checked the holocon for mail, found his
travel voucher, which he transferred to the transport ser-
vice, and then he was off, off on the new case, off to the
surface world.

The suborb station at the Nu extreme seemed unusually
busy that afternoon, the central plaza crowded with arriv-
ing and departing passengers. A group of mining engineers
stood waiting by their pile of tools and sample bags and
transits, headed, Creally guessed, out to the newly devel-
oped gallium deposits in Africa. About a dozen Nearly
Perfects with the scruffy look of a relief crew for a manu-
facturing outpost were hurrying toward a radial to catch a
boost. Small mobs of government officials and plank in-
spectors and salesmen stood crowding around the holo-
imaged schedules.
suborb number eight oh one. final boarding, an-
nounced the disembodied holovoice. silo four, t minus
one. counting.
A pair of burly P.M.'s from Vice passed Creally as they
led a female Zero out of the station. Having apparently
stumbled onto a suborb, she meekly followed between the
men. One of the P.M.'s gave Creally a nod of recognition.
"These Zeroes," he muttered under his breath. "What a
pain in the ass. And what the flank is Vice doing spring-
sitting these dregs?"
Creally laughed, and the Zero mimicked him almost to
perfection.
suborb six twelve. boarding silo ten. t minus
five. counting.
Creally's heart took a little jump. It was his transport,
he realized, and, cutting across the plaza, he hurried down
the long radial. By the time the turnstile cleared him, the
4

26
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
boost was almost ready to leave. Quickly he climbed the
ramp and entered the transport. To his surprise there were
only a few passengers onboard. Reclined up front were a
trio of Perfects, two women and a man, caught up in
heated discussion, probably technicians. Lying alone on
the right was a Nearly Perfect who, in his ill-fitting and
old-fashioned skin, had the distinct look of a rube from the
boonies. Across the aisle on the left reclined a woman, an
attractive Perfect, whose vocation Creally couldn't guess.
Feeling the need for company, Creally would normally
have selected to be with the Nearly Perfect but, for reasons
not quite clear to him, he chose the woman.
"Mind if I join you?" he ventured.
"Oh, please do," she said, giving him a surprisingly open
smile.
Creally stretched out next to her, smiling a bit uneasily.
"First suborbital?" she asked.
"Yeah. How'd you know?"
"You look tense."
"I do?" Creally laughed. "And here I thought I was
looking cool as a computer," he quipped, but hated himself
for the way everything seemed to show on his face.
The woman laughed.
"Actually, it's not the first trip. When I was a boy-
spring my father once took me on a suborb over to Asia
Minor," he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "Boost
looks kind of empty, doesn't it?" Creally surveyed the
craft. "I figured it'd be jammed," he said, and realized that
he was talking far more than he ever did to strangers. "I'm
talking a lot, aren't I?" he asked self-consciously.
"No. Not at all. In fact, I find it very pleasant," she said
with a sincerity that took Creally by surprise.
"Well, there's something about you that makes it easy,"
he explained, caught up in her candor.
"Maybe it's because I'm used to listening to people."
Creally looked at her.
"I'm a Ministrator."

PERFECT PEOPLE
27
"Oh," said Creally a little uneasily. Then he noticed the
golden helix hanging from her neck, almost hidden by her
skin. "But your robes?"
"I've got my browns in my kit. If you'd feel better I
could put them on."
"No, no," Creally laughed. A Ministrator, of all people,
he thought to himself.
"Conscience-stricken?" she joked.
"Well, yes. I mean, no. It's just that I'm not exactly one
of your religious types. I never seem to get the time to turn
on the holoservices, if you know what I mean."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a P.M.," he said, and it was her turn to look sur-
prised.
"What's a P.M. doing boosting over to the North Amer-
ican Desert?"
"Oh, just a social call to one of the solar farms," he said,
remembering his promise to Weems. "Whoops, here we
go," he said, glad for the distraction of the cabin's auto-
matic restraints pinning them into their recliners. "Gee, I
hope this thing knows where to go."
Through the small window Creally could see the silo
open around them to reveal an outside world already mov-
ing into evening, their transport casting a long last shadow
in the reddened dust. Across the aisle the last vestiges of a
lingering sun were shining in through the portholes.
"Just relax and enjoy it," said the woman, touching his
hand as the first burst of high-speed particles shot out of
the magnetic nozzles. Below him he could feel the booster
beginning to strain. The whirl from the generators picked
up and in an instant they were leaving the ground in a
skimming, shallow ascent that rapidly became steeper as
they picked up speed. Pressing forward against the re-
straints, Creally tried to look back behind them, searching
out the window for the familiar Infrastructure, but all he
could now see was a faint, raised disc in the distant land-
scape, the whole of Creatoria and its eight million inhabit-

28
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
ants reduced to a small nub on the Earth's now-darkening
surface. The suborb continued to climb, chasing the sun,
until, without warning, the transport's angle of attack be-
gan to falter and Creally experienced a sense of weight-
lessness. As the booster peeled away from them he held his
breath. An instant later the transport's own engines kicked
in and their vehicle catapulted upward on the continuing
trajectory. Below him in the far distance, the glittering
booster slid back to Earth. On the horizon, he could begin
to discern the curvature of the Earth, the color of sky
deepening from blue to indigo to near black.
Creally settled back into his recliner and for a long pe-
riod lay in quiet thought.
"This whole thing," he said, turning to the Ministrator,
"it's incredible, isn't it?"
"I suppose so," she agreed, but was clearly less than
impressed. Creally didn't dare mention how even simple
things like a holocon or the Mainframe still never failed to
amaze him. And here was the globe, the entire planet, just
outside his porthole.
"Where are you boosted?" Creally later inquired, and it
was then that she told him about her ministrative rounds
that took her to the outposts dotting the length and
breadth of the Great Desert, her duty and job to bring the
consoling words of the Creator to even the most isolated of
stations. He asked her what she knew about the solar
farms on the old lake beds and she surprised him with her
thorough knowledge of the area. The place he would visit
was unique, she told him, geologically young. It had been
shaped by the advancing and retreating glaciers of the pre-
historic ice age. The glaciers had gouged out north-south
valleys that, with the melt, ultimately had become a series
of deep gorges and lakes.
"It's as if the fingers of an enormous hand had been
drawn across the land there."
Creally tried to connect her description with his
springhood trip to the outside world, but it seemed almost

PERFECT PEOPLE
29
beyond his imagination. He seemed to be forever stuck in
the subterranean world of Creatoria, that world where
nothing changed, where there was no day or night, no
summer or winter, no heaven above except a false holosky
with imaged clouds.
As the suborb continued its long arch over the Earth,
the Ministrator went on with her description, telling him
of the history of the land; how once, long before their time,
the place he was about to visit had been richly populated
and lush with vegetation; how the closed cycles of nature
had actually worked by themselves without prompting or
control; and how now, all that was left were the shallow
lake beds, mere puddles that had been covered with domes
and turned into freshwater plank farms.
"What a shame," he said. "What a stupid waste. I mean
the Great War and all the destruction that came with it."
"Well, yes. Yes and no. It depends really on how you
look at it. As the first Creator tells us—if you remember
studying his teachings as a young spring—the Great War
was a natural outcome of primitive man's development, an
ultimate conflagration programmed into the human sys-
tem. The human race was predestined to reach a point
where the press of population upon the Earth had to be-
come intolerable. If you stand back and look at it as part of
a higher plan, the Great War was a very efficient way of
cleansing the planet. It eliminated the endless cycles of
territorial and racial wars, hunger and suffering. Above all,
it gave a magnificent spiritual leader like our Creator of
Creators the opportunity to take the survivors and with
them start the human species on the road to raceless
perfection," she said, warming to her subject.
"It was a second chance and we, as a blessed, nonviolent
people, took it. Through our first Creator we were granted
the divine gift of creative evolution, the ability to leave
behind the primitive world of casual and random repro-
duction with all its errors," she continued, looking him
deep in the eye, "and enter the hollowed realm in which

30
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
we can shape ourselves. And now, today, seven and eight
generations later, we've arrived. We're standing on the
threshold of blessed perfection, knowing that all of this
new generation will be just what our first Creator, Creator
of all Creators, dreamed of—Perfects."
Creally nodded but said nothing. It sounded logical
enough, but he couldn't help wonder, as he had countless
times before, why, if everything was so perfect or nearly
perfect, did it seem to him as if things were falling apart.
Were his misgivings merely a reflection of his own imper-
fections, or was everyone blind?
"Don't you see?" asked the woman, penetrating Creal-
ly's thoughts. "We are living in the midst of an incredible
experiment. We are part of a deeply committed and unified
society, a truly ennobled race of people. And that's a mag-
nificent thing, don't you agree?"
"Well, sure. Of course," said Creally, trying to sound
enthusiastic.
"Just think of it. You as a Peace Monitor must know.
We've eliminated violence and murder."
"Almost," he corrected.
She laughed. "Do you have an idea what it used to be
like?"
Creally nodded knowingly.
"In our society, every person is protected. Everyone has
enough nourishment, a healthy life, a supportive environ-
ment. As the Creator tells us, we're One. One people with
One dream," she smiled warmly.
"Hey, I get the feeling you're trying to give me reli-
gion," Creally joked, realizing that she had been attempt-
ing to proselytize him.
"There's no need to," she smiled assuredly. "You can't
put religion into people. You have to let them find the
Creator's spiritual truth within themselves," she explained,
clutching her helix and fixing him with her intense eyes.

31
PERFECT PEOPLE
A moment later the engines cut back to a whisper, the
craft turned its nose down, and Creally felt himself re-
turning to Earth.
Weems had personally taken care of all the arrangements
for Creaily's trip, doing everything from filing the travel
voucher to notifying the farm of his emissary's arrival. The
chief had also ordered a patrol craft to be waiting for
Creally when he arrived at the suborb station, but when
Creally discovered it parked at the end of a remote tube he
could hardly believe his eyes. There, baking in the morning
sun, stood an old clunker, a slow, cramped X-3 unit, its
shell badly battered, its controls all but corroded fast—one
of those old museum pieces that had been declared obso-
lete in Creatoria decades ago.
"What a way to die," Creally muttered, giving the shell
a quick once-over. "If this thing doesn't drop a fin it'll be a
miracle." With a grunt he crouched over and climbed into
the tiny, boiling capsule.
Inside, the cockpit was covered with dust and grime.
Creally punched in his access number and in disgust wiped
his dirtied fingers on his fresh skin. As rivulets of sweat
streamed down his face, he familiarized himself with the
controls. When he entered the engine program, Creally
was almost stunned to hear them actually start. Cool air
began to stream in, but when he cautiously lifted the craft
5

32
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
off the ground, stirring up clouds of sand, the capsule be-
gan to fill with a fine choking dust.
"Oh, Weems, you miserable flanker," he coughed and
cursed. To top it off, the craft had an antiquated navigation
system and Creally ended up using a map, conveniently
left in the glove compartment, to find his way over the
parched land to the solar farm.
At the farm, his reception proved no better than the
state of his patrol craft. Though the farm supervisor had
been well informed of his arrival, he suddenly turned out
to be too busy to meet with a P.M. and assigned an assis-
tant by the name of Zraak to answer Creally's questions
and show him around. Though Zraak had the features of a
Perfect, he wore a perpetually sullen look on his face. He
had dirt under his fingernails and in the weathered folds of
his neck. His skin was torn and grimy, and he had the
coarsest manners Creally had ever seen. He seemed to have
the mentality of a moron. Creally was baffled. He hadn't
known that people like this even existed.
"I'd like to boost over to the last puncture site," said
Creally, making his request with an affable smile.
"Just wastin' your time," muttered the grower, not even
having the decency to lift his eyes from the floor to look at
Creally. "And I haven't got all flanking day to boost all
over the womb-flanking place." He also had a filthy
mouth.
"Let's go," said Creally, deciding not to mince words.
"Now."
Muttering another obscenity, the grower turned and
headed for his farm-craft, which stood docked in one of
the tubes. It was a modern, single-man vehicle, and Creally
was forced to climb back into his old clunker to follow.
Once they were underway, it was hard for Creally to keep
up with Zraak as he skimmed over the glistening domes,
blinding in the midday sun.
Zraak was apparently heading to the southern end of the
lake bed. With one eye on the grower's speeding craft,

PERFECT PEOPLE
33
Creally tried to orient himself quickly. The series of con-
tiguous shells seemed to come from the north almost as far
as he could see and continue down past the four-story of-
fice complex and low barracks they had just left on the east
shore, all the way to the southern tip. The operation was
vast, bigger than Creally had even imagined. From end to
end, the chain of domes ran more than seventy kilometers.
After a tedious boost, Creally saw Zraak descend in a
cloud of sand, and he followed. As the grower walked
through the settling dust, Creally got out a radiation skin
and, in the cramped confines of his craft, squeezed into it.
"What the C. do you need that womb-flanking load of
putrified plooma for?" Zraak laughed, seeing him emerge
in his silvered radiation skin. "You bunch of vleemed
wimps from Creatoria." Zraak stood there brazenly in the
hot dust in just his ordinary work skin.
Creally ignored the remark. "Where was the dome dam-
aged?"
Zraak pointed vaguely in the distance to the base of a
dome. "There," he said.
Creally walked ahead. "Where?" he called. "I don't see
anything."
"Told you you're wastin' your time." Zraak remained
where he was, his hands on his hips.
"What do you mean?"
Zraak slowly ambled over. "Been 'ready fixed."
"What do you mean, fixed? You had specific orders from
P.M. Headquarters not to touch the hole until I arrived."
Creally surveyed the multitude of crisscrossing prints
around the base area of the dome.
"I didn't do nothin'."
"Then who fixed it?" asked Creally, catching a distinct
whiff of tobacco smoke on the grower as he came near.
They were probably running an illegal operation on the
side, he guessed, and wondered what else they were up to.
As Creally's eyes swept over the length of the curved, clear

34
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
shell, he found the spot where someone had, almost seam-
lessly, fused in a new plate.
"I don' know who fixed it," said Zraak, coming up be-
hind Creally as he examined the plate. "Probably one of
the techs."
Juding from the size and position of the repair, it looked
as though the holocon shots back in Creatoria had been
accurate, the hole just above ground level being little more
than a half-meter in size, big enough for a small man to
squeeze through. Or a woman.
Creally ran his fingers over the hot surface. Inside he
could see the fresh green plank bubbling. He banged his
fist against the dome to get a sense of its strength. It was
solid. Incredibly solid. Creally was then suddenly struck
by something. Or rather its absence. Noise. There was
none. It was silent out there. Deafeningly silent. It was so
still that he could actually hear grains of loose sand being
pelted against the domes when a small gust of wind came.
The stillness was so profound that he couldn't help but
stop and look out at the vista of cliffs and surrounding hills
encircling the depression of the lake bed.
Pulling himself back to work, Creally asked, "So who
gave the order?"
"What order?"
"The order for the technicians to repair this."
"I don't know," Zraak shrugged.
Creally, with his back still turned to the man, flushed in
anger.
"Tell me, what do you know?" he growled.
"Hey, I just work here. I do what the flank I'm told.
That's all," Zraak said in open belligerence. "I don't have
to spring-sit no P.M. that—"
Creally spun around. "Look, Zraak, I've had just about
enough of you and your plooma!" he said, angrily leveling
a finger at him. "You're here to cooperate with me. Now,
when I ask you a question, I want a straight answer. If you
knew that that hole had been covered, you should have

PERFECT PEOPLE
35
told me right at the beginning. From now on, if there are
any new holes, I want them reported to me immediately.
And no one goes near them. Got it?"
"Tell it to the boss."
"I will, and I'll also tell him about you."
"Suit yourself," said Zraak, unintimidated, but for the
first time since Creally had met him his frown slipped
slightly. Apparently this was the only tone he understood.
"Now, teli me about the other holes."
"They're fixed."
"That much I guessed. What I'm asking is, is there any
kind of pattern? Do they happen in the same kind of areas
or—"
"They've all happened in the finals," said Zraak, turning
a little helpful.
"So?"
"That's the pattern," said Zraak with a shrug and went
back to his craft.
Baaleydoro Xlandeeno, the chief of the farm, turned out
to be quite a contrast from his assistant. An extroverted,
smooth-talking Perfect, Xlandeeno was dressed in the
sleekest and most dapper of Creatorian skins. Unlike
Zraak, his hair glistened, his hands were clean, and he
always smiled. He even wore a little pewter-color makeup
to line his eyes.
"You've just got to get used to Zraak. He's a good man.
Means well. Care for a sip of plank?" Xlandeeno held out a
dish.
Creally, sitting in the chief's seductive office with its
soft, permasilk walls and voluptuously curved, padded fur-
niture, accepted the steaming broth. Blowing on it, he took
a tentative sip and then smacked his lips in surprise.
"Mmmmm," he said, "that is good."
"Nothing like fresh plank right off the farm," said the
chief. "Stuff you get in Creatoria is days old. We've still
never quite licked the problems of shipment. Now a guy

36
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
like good old Zraak, he's got the touch, you might say.
When he sends a shipment off, it keeps about as fresh as
possible." Xlandeeno leaned back in his chair and looked
out the window. From his fourth-story office he had a com-
manding view out over the barracks to the neighboring
hills that plunged down on all sides to the sunken lake bed
and domes.
"I understand all the holes have occurred in the finals?
What are the finals?"
"The final ponds. You probably noticed that the entire
lake bed, the one you flew over, was divided by floating
booms—"
"I didn't quite notice."
"Well, the booms support linings that section off the
bed. The lake, since we covered it and were able to con-
serve the moisture within the domes, is relatively shallow.
No deeper than three meters or so from shore to shore. It's
shallow enough for sunlight to penetrate and grow the
plankton—we're using a new, hypermitotic hybrid. All we
do is give it a nutrient slurry—a little dried plooma—add
sun and stir. The plank is pumped from successive ponds,
from east to west, until it reaches the western finals. By
then, it's already thick enough to scoop out and purify,
seal and ship off on the barges."
"And something is breaking the domes along the west-
ern finals."
"Right. And always along the same basic line. It's a real
nuisance."
"So why haven't you done anything about it?"
"We have." He smiled. "We reported it to you."
"Could there be something in the process itself causing a
rupture? You are using a new genetic type, right?"
"What? Gas? We've got vents. A caustic substance?
That doesn't smash a dome. Not like that. We may have
fancy plank, but as far as I know, in the last eon plankton
hasn't gotten up on its feet and smashed any domes."
"Could it be an animal?"

PERFECT PEOPLE
37
"There's nothing out there to speak of. Take my word
for it."
"What about some of your people? Your growers, tech-
nicians, maintenance workers?"
"Why in the name of C. would they want to do it?"
"Fun. Profit. Anger. I don't know. That's why I'm ask-
ing you."
"They're all Perfects. You know what that means." He
tried to put Creally in his place.
"Doesn't mean a thing," said Creally, unfazed.
"Aww, come on! Plank's a touchy business. Every one of
them's required to have high-level clearance."
"What about theft? Have you noticed any losses?"
"Nothing. Nothing significant. We can't monitor it that
carefully."
"Of course you can." He knew from the dome salesman
that the solar farms had the ability to measure the plank
almost down to the dishful if necessary. After all, plank
meant life for Creatoria and the more than two hundred
outposts and factories around the globe.
"Look, Leemling—" Xlandeeno began expansively.
"Officer Leemling," Creally corrected.
"Okay. Officer Leemling. We want to get this thing
solved as much as you do. We're on your side. We plan to
give you our full cooperation."
"Yeah, I just had a taste of that with Zraak."
"Listen, I promise I'll personally notify you the next
time a hole appears."
"I'm staying here until it does," said Creally, hoping
that Weems hadn't told him about their deal. "In the
meantime I want access to all your logs."
Xlandeeno looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Look,
with this monitoring thing—"
Creally watched him intently. Xlandeeno's smile looked
strained.
"So I haven't been keeping the best records. I'll admit it.
You can't hold that against a person. We can't monitor

38
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
every little drop. There's spillage. There's spoilage. Back in
Creatoria they don't know what we're up against here."
Xlandeeno squirmed in his seat.
Creally got up. The chief immediately rose to his feet.
"Soon as something happens, call me," said Creally.
"I'll be waiting." He turned without even giving a smile.
Xlandeeno was a crook of some kind. He was sure of it. He
just didn't know what his connection was to the holes.
Creally spent the rest of that terrestrial afternoon wander-
ing around the farm. There was something about the place
that gave it an other-worldly quality. The sun as it
streamed down had a brilliance and color that seemed al-
most artificial. And the quiet. The silence was nearly eerie.
Out at the domes with Zraak, the only thing Creally had
heard was the wind sweeping across the land. And here, in
the buildings, it was so still he could hear his own heart
pumping in his ears. It was as if he had not just moved
from a subterranean city to a surface outpost, but landed
on another planet.
In the blazing colors of the setting sun, Creally watched
the big, clumsy hoverbarges coming in from Creatoria. Ob-
serving them as they unloaded their bales of dried plooma
and took on their consignments of plank, Creally was
struck by how easy it would be to slip contraband back to
Creatoria. Tobacco. Intoxicants. Even extra plank. Out
here they could probably get away with murder.
6

PERFECT PEOPLE
39
Creally took a few hours to examine the farm logs. On
the face of it, everything seemed in order. Goals matched
production. Production matched shipments. To his lay-
man's eye, however, an inordinate amount of spoilage and
incidental loss seemed to occur in periodic spikes. Creally
suspected that there were two sets of logs. Oddly, though,
the spikes didn't seem to have any correlation with the
punctures. The only consistency in the pattern of damage
was that, if he could trust Xlandeeno's records, the frac-
tures had occurred, with only one exception, within a ten-
kilometer stretch running along the south-western edge of
the old lake bed. It was not very much to go on.
Just before nightfall Creally went to the communica-
tions room to check in with Weems. The call was automat-
ically rerouted to Weems's dwelling and he appeared on
image, puffy-eyed and half asleep.
"Gee, I'm sorry, sir. I know you wanted me to check in.
I just forgot about the time shift. And what with the Cre-
atoria twenty-five-hour clock and the—"
"Just get on with it, Creally."
"Yes, sir."
Creally told him what he had found.
"Well, I find it hard to believe," said Weems with a
yawn, "but if you think they're cooking the books, we can
have an auditor there tomorrow. You shouldn't be wasting
your time doing that sort of stuff. You're not an accoun-
tant. In fact, if that's the source of the trouble, why don't
you just boost back and let our people from Fraud take it
from there?"
"But I haven't found any link between the punctures
and the operation here."
"Just seems to me—"
"I've still got time, right? You remember our deal."
"And if I didn't, would you let me forget?"
Creally laughed, said his One, and broke the circuit.
Hungry, he decided to grab some dinner. Declining an
invitation from Xlandeeno to dine with him in his private

40
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
quarters, he decided to eat with the crew. It would give
him a chance to see what they were like, maybe pick up
some information. He looked out the window of the com-
munications room. In the waning light he could see the
workers' crafts coming in from all directions, their cap-
sules docking into the multitubed arms of the barracks, the
people's strange lives keyed to the cycles of the sun.
The workers, numbering just over twenty, ate in a large
messhall just off the sleeping cubicles. When Creally joined
them at the long table, he was surprised at what he found.
"Hey, you plooma-hole!" a woman sitting at Creally's
side bellowed to a co-worker at the far end of the table.
"Don't be such a hog! Throw some of those womb-of-a-
mother's cakes over here!"
To Creally's astonishment, one of the men actually lifted
a large cake off the platter and flung it over the table at
her. It hit her in the breast, then crumbled in her lap, half
of it falling forgotten to the floor. Looking at the senseless
waste, Creally was appalled—though everyone else at the
table seemed to find it hysterically funny, laughing with
reddened faces until the crumbs and liquids poured out of
their opened mouths. A man and a woman got into a
squabble and started slapping each other until pulled
apart. A man pushed another man's face into a tureen of
hot plank. Again everyone laughed. Creally, in all his years
on the Force, had never seen anything quite like it. Neglect
he had seen. Toxes he had seen. Violence, never.
It was the women, however, who shocked him the most.
They were even cruder than the men. Their language was
viler, their manner more aggressive, their bodies padded
with mounds of superfluous fat and flesh. Creally found it
all but impossible to conceive of these people as Perfects.
In his mind, "perfect" was always synonymous with some-
one like Weems—a man who never raised his voice or had
a hair out of place. It was just as the salesman had said,
these people really were all but hanging from their tails.
How, how could they get away with it? Back in Creatoria

PERFECT PEOPLE
41
they would have been zeroed out and reintegrated long ago
—a fate suffered by thousands of people back there for
what, by comparison, seemed often minor infractions.
Of the whole experience, the only positive thing that
Creally discovered was the meal. It was excellent. Far bet-
ter than anything he had ever eaten at home. And it was
abundant. More than enough to go around. There were
home-processed plank cakes, a thick stew of dumplings in
broth, a sweet, frozen dessert that stuck to the roof of his
mouth. After the meal they served a drink.
"What is it?" Creally asked a man at his side.
"Try it."
"But—"
"Just try it."
Creally took a sip. It was good, sweet but tart with a
kind of fruity taste. He drank down the pleasant concoc-
tion, and by the time he recognized it for what it was, a
potent intoxicant, he was already one drunk and helpless
Peace Monitor. Struggling to sit upright, he felt his head
spin and tug him toward the earth. He tried to rise but his
knees buckled under him. I have to make it out, ran the
thought through "his addled brain. Make it to my cubicle.
Steeling himself, Creally grasped the edge of the table. De-
terminedly he rose to his feet, turned to leave, and slipped
to the ground unconscious.
The next thing Creally knew, someone was hunched
over him, shaking his shoulder, trying to rouse him.
"Hey, Leemling. Wake up. Snap out of it!"
It was Xlandeeno.
"Huh? What?" Creally said thickly. Looking around
him, he discovered he was tangled up in the living limbs
and torsos of a half-dozen other unconscious men and
women. All of them, like himself, had their skins oif, their
smooth, hairless bodies pressed against each other. Despite
the fog in his brain, Creally realized they had set him up.

42
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
Adultery, he thought. And bodily sex to boot. Have I done
anything or have they just dropped me in here?
"You wanted me to notify you as soon as we got a new
hole," said Xlandeeno with a more-than-perfect smile on
his face. "Well, Officer Leemling, we've got a hot one for
you—if you think you can pull yourself away."
Creally cautiously rose to his knees.
"Here," said Xlandeeno, helpfully holding Creally's skin
out to him.
Creally grabbed it angrily. While dressing, he could see
in the semidarkness two flankers that had been left on,
their golden eyes glowing.
"I wouldn't have bothered you like this," explained
Xlandeeno genteelly, "but you did insist—"
"Cut the plooma!" said Creally with a hoarse voice. His
mouth felt dry, his head continued to spin, and he felt like
vomiting. "Let's go. Just take me there."
On the way out of the barracks, Creally picked up a kit
from his own cubicle, then stopped at a stima spigot to pull
three long drafts, which only made his head thunder.
Numbly he followed Xlandeeno out to the sleek craft that
stood parked in a special tube reserved for the supervisor.
He climbed into the spacious vehicle with Xlandeeno and,
within moments, they were approaching the base of a
dome.
"Don't land too close," warned Creally. "I don't want
you stirring things up."
Grabbing his kit from the rear seat, Creally decided to
forgo his radiation skin and headed toward the dome.
There was a strong wind blowing and the night was sur-
prisingly cold. When Creally reached the damage, his
hands were numb and he was shivering. Bending down, he
examined the hole.
"Out of the light," he called to Xlandeeno who was
standing in front of his ship. The chief dutifully moved
aside. In the glare of the beams, Creally could see that the
dome, now in its opaque, nighttime mode, had been bru-

PERFECT PEOPLE
43
tally attacked, a clumsy, jagged hole smashed out of the
hard surface. Shards of permaglass lay scattered on the
ground. Circling the actual hole were a series of tentative
fracture marks that had not quite penetrated the shell. It
was no accident or simple chance occurrence. Someone or
something had taken repeated, determined blows at the
hard, crystalline surface.
Creally took out a portable light from his kit and began
examining the ground. In the sand were a line of vague,
blown-over tracks, leading to and from the rupture. While
Xlandeeno stood waiting in the cold wind, Creally fol-
lowed the tracks as they led away from the dome. In a few
minutes Creally was back.
"What do you think?" asked Xlandeeno.
Creally didn't answer. "Come here with me." Creally
led him up to the hole. "Here, hold this light. Yeah, right
there. On the edge."
Taking out a portable spectrosensor, Creally ran it along
the jagged edge, stopping suddenly.
"What is it?"
"I don't know," he muttered. He took out a vial, placed
it at the site, and, releasing the high vacuum, waited for
the sampler to take its specimen. He repeated the proce-
dure in four other hotspots.
"Okay, let's go," he said to Xlandeeno, who shrugged in
puzzlement, and they returned to his craft. On the boost
back to the barracks, Creally slumped. The supervisor had
to wake him again when they arrived.

The boost between the solar farm and the transport station
by the coast took a long hour over the still-darkened land-
scape. Without a decent navigation system and few dis-
cernible landmarks in the overcast night, it was a risky
trip, but rather than chance letting Xlandeeno or one of his
workers tamper with the vials, Creally personally sent
them off on the next suborbital.
On the return trip, lifting off from the long jut of land
that reached out into the ocean, Creally took up contact
with the P.M. lab. Although his patrol craft had only rudi-
mentary voice capabilities, he felt the line used in conjunc-
tion with his scrambler was secure.
"Creally? Is that you?" questioned Nuudifidora
Balameena. She was one of the sharper lab experts who
over the years had worked with Creally on a number of
complex cases, and it was comforting to hear her friendly
voice. "I can't see you and I can just barely hear you.
Where on Creator's Earth are you?"
"I'm out by the Great Desert."
"You're kidding! What are you doing out there?"
"Don't ask," he said and was glad, considering the way
he felt and probably looked, that there was no visual link.
"Look, I just sent you a pouch by suborb. It's sealed. Make
sure the seal is intact before you open it, okay?"
"Sure thing. Big case, huh?"
Creally didn't answer.
"I didn't know there were any spring cases out there?"
"I get the distinct feeling you're prying."
7

PERFECT PEOPLE
45
Nuudey laughed. "You have all the excitement. 1 just sit
here and run things through the micro. Another couple of
years and I'll be laser blind. You could at least tell me
what's going on."
Without going into specifics, Creally told her what he
was looking for.
"You coming back soon?" she asked.
"I don't know. I may never. You should see what I'm
boosting around in."
"Oh?"
"An X-3."
"You're joking!"
"No, I'm serious. I think Weems is trying to kill me," he
laughed, and then quickly added, just in case, "I'm joking,
of course."
"Of course," she echoed. "Though you do have a bizarre
sense of humor," she said and gave her bubbling laugh
again. It made Creally feel good. "I'll get back to you as
soon as I know anything."
"No, no. I'll contact you."
"Okay. Well, Be One," she said.
"Yeah, One."
By the time Creally approached the solar farm, a golden
band was forming on the horizon behind him. The sky,
which had been endless and black, began its slow transi-
tion to a pale blue in the east, and Creally debated boosting
directly back to the hole to try to follow what was left of
the tracks. Deciding, however, to wait for more light, he
took a sharp turn and swooped down toward the barracks.
He docked his capsule and walked through the messhall,
heading for his cubicle. The workers were slowly beginning
to stir.
On his way to his cubicle, Creally passed Zraak who
gave him a faint nod of recognition. Creally smiled and
went into his cubicle where he stowed his kit. There stood
his recliner. He looked at it longingly. Debated . . . He'd

46
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
grab a couple of winks, wait until the sun was just a little
higher. As soon as his head hit the cushion, however, his
eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.
When Creally finally awoke, it was midday. He pulled
on a radiation skin, made a dash to his patrol craft, and
boosted back to the hole. When he got to the site, sure
enough, the damage was already repaired, the domes, now
in their daylight mode, clear and painfully hot to the
touch. The area around the repair was a morass of boot-
prints, and the line of tracks heading away from the domes
had all but been obliterated by the churning of landing
craft. Retracing his steps of the previous night, however,
Creally was able to pick up what he judged was a vague,
windswept trail. It led away from the domes, moving first
to the west and then south. Doggedly Creally pushed on.
The trail led to the high ground towering above the lake
bed and Creally, finding what looked like a path, scam-
pered on all fours up the steep and crumbly shale ledge.
On top, the land was bleak and arid, the wind howling
over the rocky, sandy crust. Miraculously he picked up the
trail again and followed it south, then a kilometer later lost
it. Backing and double-backing, Creally crisscrossed the
area, looking for the continuation of the trail, but couldn't
find a trace. He was about to give up and return to the
farm when, by chance, he stumbled onto it hidden behind
a series of boulders. Again the prints were moving south,
tracing out a path along what must have been the west
bank of the ancient lake.
An hour later Creally felt himself beginning to wilt in
the heat of the merciless sun. Despite the design of his
radiation skin, which supposedly allowed for transpiration,
he was bathed in an acrid sweat. Thirsty and exhausted,
Creally sank to the ground to rest. Turning to look back at
his craft, now but a dot in the shimmering distance below
him, he considered returning. He was out of his element,
he realized, deep in a desolate and hostile land where a
man on foot could get lost. The thought of his corpse lying

PERFECT PEOPLE
47
out there on the rocks amid this deadly stillness, bleached
and forgotten, frightened him. As he checked his time-
piece, he could almost hear Zraak laughing at him and
saying, "Wimp from Creatoria." Wiping the sweat from
his eyes, Creally flung off the hood and stumbled to his
feet. He stripped off the radiation skin, discarded it, and
rolled his inner skin down over his waist, tying the sleeves
around him. If the growers could go without it, then he
could too. The isotopes be damned, he thought, as a cooling
breeze played over his body and the sun, striking down on
his bare back and shoulders and chest, felt remarkably
good.
Creally pushed on. He was now more certain than ever
that if he could follow the trail to its end, it would ulti-
mately take an easterly turn, leading back to the solar
farm. It would substantiate his suspicions. All that would
remain would be the question of motive. Which seemed
more puzzling than ever. If there was pilfering going on,
why go to such extremes? Besides, as far as Creally knew,
there was no black market in plank. If there was a trade in
it out in the corridors, he was sure he would know of it.
The whole affair made no sense. It irked him and drove
him onward.
When Creally reached the southern tip of the lake bed,
the trail disappeared. There the wind had been funneling
down the long valley and the tracks were lost in the stri-
ated sand. On a hunch, he wandered eastward toward the
base of a large hill, taking in the landscape around him.
How strange, he thought, that these dry and wind-scarred
hills had once been green and lush, that here, according to
the Ministrator, there had been large trees and woods. It got
him thinking back to the museum he had visited as a child.
There, preserved for all to see, was a real, living forest
growing under the lights of the fusion works—the exhibit
replete with exotic birds, robins and sparrows and hawks.
Secretly, as a child, Creally had wished that he had lived in
those early times. It was a dream long forgotten, lost in

48
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
adulthood. And yet here it was, coming back to him at the
most unexpected time.
Creally was still walking, lost in his thoughts, when he
stumbled onto the beginnings of a gorge, a deep chasm of
stone snaking up through the ascending hill, dark and cool
and mysterious. Cautiously he moved into it, the air now
damp and fragrant. Lured by a small trickle of water run-
ning along the muddy bottom, Creally followed the stream
as it led deeper into the hills. Soon the rock walls were
towering hundreds of meters over his head. Around him
vegetation, ferns and primordial vines, tenaciously clung to
the sheer sides of the chasm. He bent down over a small
clear pool of water and washed his face. The water smelled
of life and cautiously he licked his lips. He looked up and
there was a bird flying around the bend.
Excited, Creally hurried on, his boots slipping on the
mossy stone. Out on the lake bed the sun was setting, the
sky turning a mellow red. Fascinated to be out in the wilds,
experiencing natural, terrestrial life, Creally felt like a
child again, exhilarated and insatiable.
By the time Creally came to his senses it was evening,
and he knew he was in trouble. Quickly he turned around
and, in the failing light, tried to make his way back. In the
gorge it darkened rapidly. Only from overhead was there
the faintest hint of light. What would he do, he worried, if
he couldn't get out? Then he heard a loud crashing in front
of him and froze. Coming up the gorge around the bend
was the sound of steps, feet splashing in the puddles of
water. His heart pounding, Creally pressed himself against
the rock wall. The steps neared. Creally swallowed, the
sound of his throat loud in his head. Then he saw it. Mov-
ing along the floor of the chasm. A deer. A real, living
deer. He couldn't believe his eyes. What was all but extinct
stood there, before him. Him, Creally Leemling, Peace
Monitor from Creatoria, dweller of corridor Upsilon-235.

PERFECT PEOPLE
49
* * *
Were it not for the clear skies and sliver of moon,
Creally might have spent the night out in the cold. It was
well into darkness when he reached his craft. Lifting off
over the bed of the lake, he immediately took up contact
with P.M. Headquarters. By good luck, Nuudey was just
back, starting a new shift.
"I was beginning to wonder about you," she said, and
her voice seemed to be coming from another world, a di-
mension utterly removed from what Creally had just expe-
rienced. For an instant, he was tempted to tell Nuudey
about it, about the greenery and the bird and the deer, but
in the end he kept it to himself.
"Find anything?" he asked.
"Matter of fact, yes. But it's sort of odd."
"Oh?"
"I picked up some slivers of metal."
"What kind?"
"A ferrous-zirconium alloy. That's almost ancient stuff.
We haven't used that in a century."
"Anything else?"
"There were some fibers too. Which is even stranger.
I've never seen anything like them."
"How's that?"
"They're not like any of the synthetics we use or have
ever used."
"Maybe they're animal," Creally suggested, still think-
ing of the deer.
"No, no. They're processed. Naturally occurring, pro-
cessed fibers. From vegetable matter."
"I don't get it," he said, confused.
"That's what I mean, neither do I," she said.
Silence.
"By the way," she said, "I may have something more for
you."
"What is it?"
"It's even stranger."

50
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"What? Tell me, for C.'s sake."
"Not yet. I've got to check it out first. Make sure I
didn't make a mistake. Just give me a little time, okay?"
"Sure."
"Be One," she said, signing off.
"One," he echoed, and punched in a new circuit, taking
up contact with Weems. The chief had been waiting for the
call.
"Creally, I'm getting all kinds of crazy reports about
you." Weems seemed a little unnerved.
"Huh?"
"The farm supervisor shot me a holex complaint, some
garbage about 'moral' problems. What the C.'s going on
out there with you?"
"Oh, that," said Creally. He was still puzzled by
Nuudey's findings and wondered if Weems had been noti-
fied.
"Yes, that. Is it true?"
"I don't know what Xlandeeno's accusing me of."
"Come on, Creally, don't play cute with me."
"Listen, I'm completely innocent. Well, sort of—"
"Well, which is it? I can't have my P.M.'s dragged
through muck. You're a mated man. You and Veena have
been scratched, are expecting. You can't just carry on."
"I know, but—"
"No buts. We can't have this kind of stuff going on."
"Look, sir. I'm on to something big."
"Yeah, a big scandal."
"Did you hear about Nuudey's findings?"
"No."
"Well, talk to her. Please. You'll see."
"You've got another three days. That's it."
"Sounds like you're counting."
"You bet your memex badge I am."

Two days passed. Two days without another attack on the
domes. Even taking into account the extra hour gained
each day over Creatoria's biological clock, Creally's time
was rapidly dwindling. In little more than a day he would
find himself back in the corridors of the Infrastructure,
dealing with the everyday ugliness of petty people de-
nouncing their neighbors, callous parents brutalizing their
springs, of having to sift through the flotsam of confusion
and lies. Yet he could do nothing but wait. Wait and watch.
"I don't care if you find the ghost of the Creator of
Creators himself walking on those sands," warned Weems
when Creally tried to hint at more time. "I expect you
back on the minute."
Then came the message Creally had been waiting for.
He caught it on the readout after returning to his craft
from one of his exploratory walks.
CONTACT P.M. LAB
It was Nuudey. He tried her at the lab, but she had
already left. Frantically, he called her dwelling.
"Oh, I'm glad you called me."
"Well, what's the word?"
"Hey, you're not going to believe this."
"Try me," he said.
"Remember I told you I might have something? Well,
it's a microscopic fragment. A fragment of hair."
"A hair? Human?" He became excited.
"Yes."
8

52
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Great! Just what I needed. Let's type it, quick. Get me
the chromocode and—"
"No, no," Nuudey corrected herself. "Humanlike."
"Huh?"
"It's human, but it's not any of the certified colors."
"What about the code?"
"It's different. I've never seen anything like it."
Silence.
"Creally, you still there?"
"Yeah, I'm here. I'm just thinking . . . What does it
mean?"
Creally boosted back to the barracks. When he got
there, there was a call waiting for him from Weems. Secur-
ing himself in the communications room, Creally con-
nected the scrambler to the holocon and punched up the
chief. Without the customary delay, Weems was on the
circuit, his ebullient, golden face filling the space.
"Creally, how are you doing?" Weems was all smiles and
Creally could barely hide his surprise.
"Fine, sir."
"I left word because I have some good news for you."
"Oh?"
"First of all, I have an apology. I have to admit that I
may have been a little harsh on you. I just didn't want you
squandering valuable resources on some boondoggle."
Creally waited.
"Well, I've run some of the figures past our accountants.
Although shipments generally coincide with production—
there's even some question there—the manifests on the
farm end don't match the arrival logs at the processing
plants. There's a definite discrepancy. You were right on
that point, Creally."
Creally watched Weems's face, looking for that telltale
tic of his.
"You're making this a little difficult for me," Weems
went on.

PERFECT PEOPLE
53
"Sorry, sir. I just don't know what to say."
"That deadline I put you on. I've changed my mind. I
want you to stick to the case. Find out who's making the
holes. You can have more time if you need it. Within rea-
son, of course."
Creally tried not to look flabbergasted.
"You've done a fine job, Creally." And there was that
tic, Weems's mouth jittering at the corner.
"Thank you, sir."
"Fact of the matter is, I've recommended you for a com-
mendation from the Ultimate Board."
"The Ultimate Board!" Creally whistled through his
teeth.
"Well, keep in touch. And for C.'s sake, keep that radia-
tion suit on. Looks like you've got a bad burn on your face.
Well, Be One."
"One," said Creally with a big grin that faded as soon as
the circuit was broken. What in C.'s name was up? It was
not like Weems to reverse himself. And he'd said "who"
not "what" was making the holes.
Creally immediately called Nuudey back.
"Creally? What's up?"
"Sorry to keep bothering you. Just had a quick ques-
tion."
"Well, boost away."
"Did you tell anyone about the hair fragment?"
"No."
"Anybody at all?"
"Nope."
"Nobody in the lab? Or even Weems?"
"Not a soul, I swear. What's going on?"
"Nothing. Just checking," said Creally, and was sure
they knew everything.

Insomnia. For the first time since Creatoria, it struck
again. Despite the warmth and gentle rocking of his re-
cliner, Creally's mind kept speeding along, running the
same questions over and over again. In the wee hours of
the morning, long before the sun would rise, the barracks
still echoing with the sound of heavy snores, Creally aban-
doned any hope of sleep. He got up, went to the mess, and
helped himself to a snack of leftovers.
After spending a few minutes aimlessly wandering
around, he went over to the office complex and rode the
ascendor up three levels to the farm monitoring station.
There he found Zraak on night duty, sitting bleary-eyed at
the console, the bank of phosphorescent screens casting his
face in greenish hues. Displayed before the grower was the
status of all the plank ponds, collected from a thousand
monitoring points around the vast farm.
"Howya doing?" said Creally, trying his best to sound
friendly.
"Surviving," mumbled Zraak. The hostility was gone.
Instead he seemed subdued, melancholy.
Creally nodded and, appearing to interest himself in the
monitoring process, wandered desultorily around the sta-
tion. Stepping close to a dynamic holodisplay, he feigned
interest in the undulating traces of light and waited. Fi-
nally, just as he had hoped, Zraak broke the heavy silence.
"How's your big case going?"
Creally shrugged. Turning slowly, he glanced at Zraak.
9

PERFECT PEOPLE
55
The man was miserable. Alone and lonely. Obviously he
wanted to talk, and Creally decided to take a chance.
"Level with me, Zraak," he said, looking straight at
him. "What's going on here?"
Zraak gave a weary, bitter laugh.
"They're stealing, aren't they?"
"So what else is new?"
"And you?"
Zraak reached over the console to reset a pump and
checked to make sure one of the tanks was filling. "Why
should I steal? Nothin' I want. Nothin' I need. Just want
to be left alone, that's all."
"I pretty much keep on top of what's going on in Cre-
atoria," said Creally, carefully feeling his way in, "but I've
never heard of any black market in plank there."
"Those kind of people don't need one," said Zraak, pur-
posely avoiding his eyes.
"What do you mean? What people?"
"You figure it out."
"But who's doing it?" he continued cautiously.
"Everybody's doin' it. Everybody's a crook."
"Everybody?"
"Yeah. You don't believe all this goodness-and-virtue
plooma, do you?"
"Well, some of it—"
"Come on. You're a P.M. Don't tell me they've pulled
the skin over your head. Those womb-flankers here, back
there, they're all a bunch of crooks. You know that. Every
lousy one of them. Far as I'm concerned you can trade
them all in for a cup of plank and be light-years ahead of
the game," Zraak continued, working himself up into a
tirade. "All scum-flankers. Including the Creator. And the
Creator's Creator. You can take him and his flanking com-
mandments and shove them for all I care."
Creally stood there in the monitoring station, trying to
keep the look of astonishment from his face. He had never
heard anyone dare go on like that.

56
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Aren't you afraid going around and saying these
things?"
"Why?"
"Well—"
"They gonna zero me out? Is that it?" he asked with a
loud, raucous laugh. The sound gave Creally shivers.
"They tried it twice already."
Creally was amazed. "Twice?"
"And every time I bounce back. Got me one good mem-
ory," he boasted. "I'm what they call an incorrigible. Bit of
a problem spring, you might say. They can't kill me. No,
they're too pure for that." He turned glum again. "Besides,
I'm the only one who knows how to fix the stuff here, keep
things runnin'. So they're stuck with little old Zraak."
Again the demented laugh.
Creally didn't know what to believe. If it were true, it
explained everything about Zraak. About the whole crew.
"What about the holes?" Creally tried to bring Zraak
full circle.
"What about 'em?"
"What's the connection to the stealing?"
"Who said anything 'bout a connection?"
"I just thought—"
"You P.M.'s just think too much. That's your trouble.
You keep doin' that and they'll zero you out too. Toast
your brain a little. Warm you up. Do you some good,
maybe," he laughed, delighted at the thought.
"No connection?" Creally coaxed.
"No flanking connection."
"Then who's doing it?"
"Search me. I don't know. You really wanna find out, go
out and sit there."
"Sit where? Out in the night?"
"Well, you're the one that wants to find 'em. Scared of
the dark, huh? Even with your great Creator to protect
you? Eh, you're like all the rest of them that pop up here,"

PERFECT PEOPLE
57
he waved Creally away with a perfunctory flip of his hand,
"Just a bunch of perpetual-light sperm wimps!"
Creally's talk with Zraak left him uneasy. If the man
was telling the truth, then the stealing went all the way to
the top and Creally was already in over his head. Weems's
sudden reversal also worried him. He suspected he was
being manipulated somehow. More than ever he felt he
needed to talk to someone, hear a friendly voice. After
breakfast with the crew, he decided to call Veena from the
communications room. With Creatorian time now but two
hours off, he found her up and getting ready for work.
"How are you?" he inquired.
"Oh, fine," she answered distantly.
"I just wanted to see how things were going."
She smiled vaguely.
"It was getting kind of lonely out here," he confessed.
"It's late. I've got to go to work."
"Yeah, sure. I just called to tell you that I may have to
stay here a little longer."
"I know."
"You do?"
"The chief called me."
"Weems? What's he doing calling you?"
"Just being helpful, I suppose."
"Well, look, I'll let you go."
"Okay."
"Be One."
"Yeah, One."
After he broke the connection, Creally didn't feel any
better. It wasn't what she had said, but what she hadn't.
She'd never asked him when he was coming home. Pain-
fully he realized that she didn't care.

That morning a team of young archeologists connected
with the historical museum arrived at the farm barracks
where they were to be quartered for the duration of their
stay. Creally watched them unpack and reload a barge,
and, later in the day, after doing some scouting around the
outlying areas, he boosted out to the area where the team
was working. The site was located on the high east hill,
overlooking the lake bed. It was covered with piles of deep
rubble and marked with occasional low sections of crum-
bling walls that once must have been parts of large struc-
tures. From the crest of the hill, through the haze of dust
and sand raised by the excavation machinery, Creally
could make out a good length of the lake bed up to the
point where it took a sharp turn to the west. From his
vantage point the bed was a broad gully extending all the
way up toward the horizon, its center bubbles of domes
sparkling in the hot sun like strings of dazzling gems. All
around him there was activity—gigantic earth movers
shifting piles of stone, people in radiation suits hunched
over in little holes, gingerly digging by hand. Creally found
himself intrigued by it all.
"What is it you're looking for?" he asked, peering over
the shoulder of a young Perfect working on her knees.
When she glanced up and saw he was not wearing a radia-
tion skin, she looked momentarily surprised.
"Artifacts," she explained, turning back with a shrug to
continue sifting through the sand with her trowel.
"Oh, I see," he nodded, but didn't.
10

PERFECT PEOPLE
59
She must have understood, because she stopped work-
ing. Putting aside her tool, she got to her feet. "According
to our research there used to be a university here."
"A what?"
"A place of higher learning."
"Like our Technicums?"
"Right. Well, sort of. We're looking for artifacts."
Reaching under her hood, she wiped the sweat from her
eyes and motioned for Creally to follow her. "Come here.
Let me show you."
Creally tagged after her, wending his way between the
other hunched figures sifting in the rubble.
The archeologist went to a padded box sitting on a pile
of stones. When she opened the lid, Creally could see bits
of colored glass and a decaying, rectangular object stacked
with leaves of fibrous material that had writing on it.
"It's a book," she explained. "They used paper print-
outs, you know, hard copy to keep their records. And here,
here's something interesting we found," she said, ex-
tracting a metallic object.
Creally reached out to take it.
"Hey, be careful. Don't drop it. It's brittle."
Creally examined the chunk of dull metal. It was
smooth and curved on its long surface, but fractured on its
ends. "What is it?" he asked.
"It's part of a piece of sculpture."
"Of what?"
"Art," she said, and Creally couldn't hide his mystifica-
tion. "Here. Look carefully. See, this is part of a torso.
Going from the pubis to the ribs. That hole is the navel for
an umbilicus. You know how they used to—"
"Oh," said Creally, smiling. "It's part of a woman's
body."
"Exactly."
"I just didn't look at it the right way." He turned it in
his hand.

60
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Well, that's what they called art," she said, carefully
replacing the piece in the box.
"Art," repeated Creally thoughtfully, and he followed
the young archeologist back to her dig.
"The people who lived here used to create forms like
that; very often humanlike." She stooped down and re-
turned to her work. "Art for them was"—she struggled to
explain the idea—"well, it meant casting into physical
form their image of what an ideal humanoid might look
like."
"Art was their reaching for what they thought was
perfection," Creally ventured.
"Yes! Precisely," said the young woman, impressed by
Creally. He was hardly as unsophisticated as she had at
first suspected. "We don't have art in that civilization's
sense of the idea. But we do have sculpture, expressed in
terms of living reality. For us it isn't necessary to dream of
perfection."
"Our people are our art," he said, completing her
thought.
"Yes." She smiled her Perfect smile. "Whoops!" She
suddenly interrupted herself as she made contact with
something foreign deep in the ground. Shielding it with her
fingers, she dug around it with a tiny spoon, being careful
not to scrape or damage the object. Finally, after using a
small brush to remove the last of the dirt, she cautiously
lifted the metallic piece and held it in her hand. "See," she
said proudly as Creally bent over to look at it. It was an
arm, a woman's arm, clearly belonging to the earlier piece.
It's beautiful, Creally thought, long and elegant in the
stark light of the sun. It was the arm of a Perfect, as if the
people who had lived there almost two hundred years ago
could have envisioned just what was to happen.
Creally thanked the archeologist for her time. He
started back to his craft, but then stopped, turned, and
went back to the dig.
"I was wondering," he ventured.

PERFECT PEOPLE
61
"Hmmmm?" she looked at him.
"Hair," he said thoughtfully. "What kind of hair did
they have—the people who once lived here?"
"I'm not sure," the archeologist shrugged. "I suppose
something like ours. Why do you ask?" She smiled, tilting
her head quizzically to one side.
"Oh, I don't know. Just curious . . ."
It was a hunch. A wild chance at best. But Creally had
nothing to lose but time. Taking Zraak's advice, he gath-
ered up some tarps and boosted out to the southwest edge
of the farm. Secreting his craft in a gully, he climbed to a
low ledge overlooking the finals and there set up camp.
Wrapped in the tarps, he waited for night to approach.
As the sun descended and the domes shifted into their
opaque mode, a heavy dew fell upon the land, soaking the
tarps. Propping his back up against the wall of shale,
Creally scanned the dark landscape. In the far distance, a
white half moon was peeking over the hill where the arche-
ologists had been working that day. The night wind began
to gently blow, moaning through the valleys and whistling
through the scrub and brush on the plateau high above
Creally's head. On his left, a creature hooted.
Slowly the moon began to pull itself above the surround-
ing hills, casting the land in the relief of white light and
deep, deadened shadows. Around him Creally could hear
the earth begin to stir. Insects moving through the dry soil,
11

62
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
small nocturnal animals making inordinate sounds as they
crept through the undergrowth around him. Occasionally
stones mysteriously tumbled off the bluff.
Creally stared out into the night. Hours slowly passed.
He flexed his numb fingers, wiggled his toes, rubbed his
wet cheeks. He kept checking his timepiece. Gradually the
moaning wind died down and the night took on a still,
crystalline quality in which the smallest sound seemed to
be magnified and the stars burned as sharp points of light
in the heavens. A fleeting yellow streak passed overhead
and Creally wondered if it was a shooting star or just a
returning transport burning through the atmosphere. He
thought about his father again. About that strange dream
he'd had. "Hickory Dickory Dock," he whispered to him-
self, as puzzled as ever. And he thought about his brother's
words: There's more out there. More what? Was there sense
in a dream? Then, suddenly, he was jolted by an extrane-
ous noise, a loud, beating sound. His heart thumping in his
chest, Creally sat up and cocked his head to one side.
Again the noise. From the right. South. It was harsh and
loud and sounded like metal being slammed against a solid
but hollow, resonating mass. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
Yes. There. Maybe two kilometers away. Someone or
something was actually beating on the domes.
Scampering to his feet, Creally crept along the ledge,
hugging the darkness. Clunk. Clunk. The insistent noise
continued, then merged with the unmistakable shattering
of the permaglass.
Creally slid off the ledge and began descending down the
wall of rock, retracing his earlier path. His frozen fingers
clinging to the rocks, he lowered himself rapidly. As he
neared the bottom of the cliff, he jumped free into the
sand. When he landed, the noise abruptly stopped and he
froze. Then came another short burst of banging, and he
took off in a hunched-over sprint, moving quietly but
swiftly over an exposed, moonlit stretch of loose sand and

PERFECT PEOPLE
63
gravel. In the distance he could now make out a clump of
figures. Maybe ten or a dozen of them.
He crept closer. The figures were moving, heading to-
ward the wall of the west bank. In a low crouch, Creally
cut back into the shadows of the cliff. Anticipating their
move, he headed straight south, searching for a place to
climb. Everywhere he looked, the cliff was sheer and steep.
To his right he could hear the people ascending the heights
along what must have been a path up the precipice. Grip-
ping the outcroppings with his fingers and toes, Creally
began to climb. The shale crumbled under his touch, and
gingerly he made his way up the wall, testing each hold
before committing himself. Finally his hands made contact
with a wide rim, a path. Catching his breath, he paused
and listened. They were coming directly toward him, a
dozen padded footsteps moving rapidly ahead. Quickly he
lowered himself below the path, hugging the ledge, his feet
precariously perched on a narrow outcropping.
The march of steps neared. A clump of shale broke loose
under his foot and cascaded noisily down the bluff. The
footsteps stopped. Creally pressed tighter, held his breath.
The steps picked up. Closer. Closer. Now they were pass-
ing above him. Creally peeked over the rim. There, clear in
the moonlight, was a silent file of barefoot people bearing
large urns on their heads. Men and women. Not Perfects.
Not Nearly Perfects. But hairy ones. Short, stocky males
with full beards covering their faces, hair on their exposed
limbs and chests. The females with heavy, muscular limbs,
large breasts, wide hips.
Creally hung below the ledge in dumbfounded amaze-
ment, his mind reeling. It was hard to believe. He, a simple
P.M., had made the discovery of the century. He had
found what all the historians had postulated no longer ex-
isted. He had discovered a lost tribe of Imperfects!
All that night Creally trailed the tribe of Hairy Ones,
hanging back a discreet distance as the column made its

64
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
sure-footed way over the treacherous terrain. They trav-
eled a circuitous route along the western embankment.
When they reached the southern tip of the lake bed, the
tribe proceeded up one of the series of gorges cutting the
eastern hill.
In the gorge the darkness closed in on him. Creally
stumbled, sat down on the trail, and caught his breath
until his eyes adjusted. He looked up. Against the faint
light of the sky, the walls above him seemed to lean pre-
cariously inward as though ready to topple into the gorge.
Below him, somewhere in the dark, bottomless depths, wa-
ter was running. The tribe members, despite their heavy
burdens, were quickly distancing themselves. After getting
to his feet, Creally felt his way along the track. Snaking
along the wall of the chasm, the track unexpectedly rose
and fell, narrowing sometimes to the width of a single hu-
man foot. Trying not to think of the depths that waited
hundreds of meters below him, Creally hugged the wall
and hurried to keep up.
It was close to daybreak when the Hairy Ones arrived at
a widening in the gorge. Hidden behind a gnarled old tree
anchored on a high shelf, Creally watched them make
their winding descent down to the chasm's broad floor.
There, on a delta with a gentle brook running on either
side, sat their settlement, eight strange cone-shaped dwell-
ings covered with colorful, patterned material. From the
tops of the cones came faint wisps of smoke. When the
tribe reached the floor of the gorge, they dispersed with the
urns into their cones. Then there was no movement, only
silence as the sky lightened and morning reluctantly lit up
the hidden delta.
Creally waited behind the tree, dozing and waking later
to the happy sound of kids playing. Opening his eyes, he
saw a mob of half naked boy-springs and girl-springs
laughingly chasing each other around the cones and
splashing in and out of the brook. Soon the whole village

PERFECT PEOPLE
65
began to emerge, men and women, old people and young,
coming out of the cones, stretching and yawning, maybe
thirty or thirty-five in all. Some of the women held infants,
others had the unmistakably bloated bellies of females
heavy with bodily spring. The people, he noticed, seemed
to have a kind of ease with each other, and when they
spoke, it was always in soft, barely audible tones.
When everyone was awake, a large fire was made and a
few of the urns were brought out. The kids were finally
called back, and, after one of the older men had dished out
broth from a heavy cauldron, the tribe sat around the fire
happily chatting and feasting on the pilfered plank.
When all had eaten their fill, the urns were washed, the
utensils returned to the cones, and the tribe gathered to-
gether. Then, emitting in unison a strange, tremulous se-
quence of notes, the people filed out of the camp—infants
carried on their mothers' backs, springs clutching the hand
of an adult on either side. As they wound their way deeper
up the gorge, disappearing around a bend, the mellifluous
sound of their blended voices continued to drift back to
Creally. Spellbound, he remained hidden, and only when
he was certain they were far from the delta did he slip
down into the camp. Wading through the stream, he
moved stealthily toward the dwellings, his ears cocked, his
eyes sweeping around. The place was empty. When he got
to the first cone, he stopped and carefully felt the material.
It was a kind of cloth, he noted, coarsely woven of colorful
green and brown and white fibers, forming an intricate
pattern that, from a distance, blended into the lushness of
the gorge, making the cones invisible from the air. Creally
peeked into one dwelling. There, on the floor, stood
earthenlike vessels of the kind the people had borne on
their heads. They were of all sizes, from large kettles to
small, plank-sipping-sized cups, each uniquely shaped and
decorated with delicate designs of flora and fauna. In the
center of the cone was a small fireplace with smoking em-
bers, matched stones carefully fitted to form a perfect cir-

66
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
cle. In another cone he found what looked like communi-
cations gear and a small stockpile of weapons. Long-tubed,
wooden-stocked, ancient rifles. Small hand-held launchers
with matching finned rockets. In many of the cones he
found what the archeologist had called books. Opening
one at random, he examined the print on one of the leaves.
To his surprise he could understand the language. He read
a paragraph. It was a description of a place. Of snowy
mountains and frozen rivers. Here they used words to de-
scribe what a holocon could just as easily have shown
them. Resisting the temptation to keep the book, he care-
fully replaced it.
Creally explored the rest of the camp. On a stone pedes-
tal near the central fire he discovered a tool made of a
heavy alloyed metal and crude wood. When he picked it
up and held the wooden grip in his hand, he realized it was
a device for cutting or chopping. Though primitive in de-
sign, he was surprised how good it felt in his hands, as if it
belonged there, and he couldn't resist trying it out. Hitting
it against a log, he was amazed how the metal blade—
when he got the knack of it—sliced through the trunk,
lifting up neat slivers of wood. Toward the rear of the
camp he found the soil furrowed and hilled, plants grow-
ing in straight rows. These people, whoever they were, were
actually eating stuff grown in the dirt! And here, too, were
tools. For digging. For chopping. Creally picked up each
one in turn to admire it and get its feel. He examined the
cultivated plants. Some were green and leafy. Others had
strange fruits, reddish and green spheres hanging from
their stems. Cautiously he reached out and plucked a red
fruit from one of the low bushes. Lifting it to his nose, he
sniffed it. It had a fragrant but slightly acid aroma, almost
like fermented plank. When he squeezed it, the skin burst
and a mixture of reddish juice and white pointilistic seeds
oozed out. He smelled it again. Though it was enticingly
sweet, he didn't dare touch it to his mouth.
He heard a sound and looked up. It was a squirrel scam-

PERFECT PEOPLE
67
pering over the rocks, and it reminded him that he had
already stayed too long. After retracing his steps past the
fireplace and to the brook, he was about to wade through
the water when something lying at the edge caught his eye.
It was a half-submerged, pinkish object. He picked it up
and saw that it was a piece of sculpture. Created from a
plasticized material, it had the shape of a woman. He
turned it in his hand and looked at it. Though worn and
obviously very old, he saw to his surprise that it looked
just like Veena, from her B-3 eyes to her small nose and
high cheeks. Someone had made a loose skin for it and
when Creally cautiously lifted the garb to peek under, he
saw that it wasn't quite Veena after all. It was really a
Perfect, and with a twinge of guilt he slipped it into his
pocket.
The hike back to his patrol craft took a small eternity, and
as Creally made his way along the base of the western
embankment, he was beginning to wonder if he hadn't
imagined the whole thing. Reaching into his pocket, he
touched the pink figure as if to reassure himself. It was
true. Yet would anybody really believe that he had discov-
ered such a lost tribe? Could people back in Creatoria even
conceive that such a primitive people were able to subsist
off the soil, have such ingenious tools and implements,
without the blessing of technology?
As Creally continued the last stretch along the ancient
12

68
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
shore, his mind was in turmoil. Before him he could see
the little springs playing with each other, hear their shouts
and laughter as they chased one another around the camp.
It brought him back to his own youth, the years he had
spent amid that jumble of young Nearly Perfects and aging
Not-so-nearly Perfects in old Gamma sector. It had been
crowded. His family had lived modestly in a tiny third-
level dwelling. But life seemed—no, it was—happier then,
simpler, freer. Ports were left open not because of social
pressure, but because neighbors were welcome. The adults
were always sitting out in the corridors in front of their
dwellings, gabbing and gossiping with each other while the
children played. There were heated discussions and he had
had friends. Many of them. These days were different.
Though everything was peace and perpetual smiles, there
was no warmth, no real caring. The tribe I saw, he thought
as he scampered up the gully to where his craft lay hidden,
they seem to possess the very things we've lost.
Creally climbed into the old X-3 and started the engines.
He raised the craft up and, as soon as he was airborne
above the rim of the plateau, put in a call to Weems. While
he eagerly waited for the chief to come on the line, he
wondered how Weems would react to the spectacular
news. Would he believe it? Could he believe it?
"What's up?" asked Weems when he came on.
"You're not going to believe this, sir," said Creally and,
in a rush of words, he told Weems about the previous
night: how, following the smashing sounds, he had come
upon the moonlit figures of a dozen people, discovering
them to be not Perfects or Nearly Perfects but Imperfects,
Hairy Ones. He told Weems of their camp on the delta
hidden deep within the gorge, of agriculture and imple-
ments, of women who looked as though they carried their
fetuses like animals. And when Creally finished, his gush
of words subsiding, the craft fell silent except for the sound
of its hovering engines.
"Sir? Are you there?" he finally asked.

PERFECT PEOPLE
69
"Yeah. I'm here."
"Well?"
Weems hesitated. "Look, stay right where you are. I'll
get right back to you," he said and then broke the connec-
tion.
Hovering above the lake bed, the domes blazing in sun-
light below him, Creally sat and waited. Five minutes later
Weems was back on the circuit. He sounded distracted and
tense. "Okay. Give me the coordinates of the camp."
Creally took out the map from the glove compartment
and searched. There was no indication of the gorges but,
by making a quick interpolation, he was able to give accu-
rate coordinates.
"Good," said Weems, after he had recorded them.
"You've done an excellent job. I'll need you back at Head-
quarters on the next suborbital."
"But, sir—"
"We have to talk. Anyway, there's nothing more for you
to do, is there?"
"I just thought—"
"You've solved the case. That's what you went out for,
right?"
"Yes, but—"
"But what?"
"What's going to happen to these people?"
"Don't worry yourself about that," said Weems.
"They'll be taken care of. When you get back, I'll explain
everything. In the meantime, until you've been thoroughly
debriefed, there are to be no discussions with anyone about
your findings. And that's a strict order."
"Yes, sir," answered Creally, and then Weems was gone,
leaving him confused and disappointed.
Creally boosted back to the farm. When he stepped in-
side the barracks, he found them quiet and deserted, the
workers all out on their jobs. Miserable, he went to his

70
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
cubicle and, gathering up his belongings, flung them into
his kit.
At the transport station, it turned out that he had hours
to kill. The place was empty except for a couple who sat
glued to a portable holocon in their laps, staring out at
semifinal psych-offs coming from Creatoria. Restless,
Creally paced the confines of the building, running
Weems's orders over and over in his head. The more he
considered it, the more unfair it struck him. He was begin-
ning to court thoughts of going AWOL when the subor-
bital finally arrived, the roar of its retrorockets shaking the
structure. The large double ports opened and through the
tube came a flood of exiting passengers. The boost had
been packed. Creally was jostled to one side as the passen-
gers struggled in with their luggage. Scanning the crowd,
Creally was surprised to note there were only men. Oddly,
too, these passengers seemed to be carrying with them an
inordinate amount of heavy baggage. He might have let it
all go, but to his astonishment, moving among the men
who were forming into groups and dispersing down the
arms of the radial exits, he spotted a P.M. from Headquar-
ters.
Creally rushed over. "Sneeling," he said, confronting
him. "What in C.'s name are you doing here?"
Sneeling's eyes almost popped out. Flushing a deep
crimson, he began to stutter. "I—I—I'm here on some
routine business," he blustered. Skirting around Creally,
he hurried down one of the tubes with a trio of men.
final call. final call. two ten for creatoria,
the suborbital's control system warned, ports closing t
minus five and counting.
Watching as the remaining men lugged their baggage
down the exit tubes, Creally turned to the transport en-
trance.
t minus three and counting. no more vouchers
accepted after . . .
He picked up his kit and walked down the tube. At the

PERFECT PEOPLE
71
turnstile he punched in his voucher code and was cleared.
He was about to push through and embark, when he sud-
denly turned on his heels. Striding back into the plaza, he
followed the exit tube Sneeling had taken. He broke into a
trot. Then a run. Then he was sprinting.
passenger leemling. passenger leemling. pass
through turnstile. t minus twenty seconds.
counting.
By the time he got to the end of the tube, it was empty,
Sneeling and his bunch gone, the opening to the outside
world sealed.
Creally activated the port, slid it open, and stuck his
head out in time to see a squadron of modern patrol craft
lifting off from the exit arms, a storm of kicked-up sand
blotting out the sun. After sliding shut the port, he dashed
back into the transport station and ran to the other end
where his X-3 stood baking in the sun.
t minus zero. t minus zero and holding. holding
for passenger leemling. board immediately.
board immediately.
First tossing in his kit, Creally then jumped into the
cockpit and punched in his access code. He got clearance,
but the engines didn't sound. He tried again. Nothing. The
thing was dead.
"What the flank!" he slammed his fist on the dashboard.
"Those womb-flankers!" he cursed. Someone had in-
structed the rental holocon to immobilize the ship.
creatoria transport departing. danger. clear
all ports.
Creally got out and ran to the next tube, looking for a
craft, any kind of craft. It was empty. Out the port he
could no longer see the ships of the squadron. Creally ran
back into the station and out the next tube as the Earth
shook and the huge transport and booster lifted off the
ground. Nothing. The next tube. Again nothing. On his
fifth try, sweat blinding his eyes, he found a craft. The
hood over its engines still felt warm to the touch. He

72
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
slipped into the cockpit. There was a trick, he remem-
bered. An old craft thief he had once caught had used it to
heist boosts. The problem was to get beyond the craft's
identification system. It was an economy two-seater made
by Joordi Industries. Joordi. Joordi, and then he recalled
the algorithm. He punched in the first six key digits. The
machine accepted it. Four more digits and he had the igni-
tion on, the engines humming, the craft easing up off the
ground. This one had no maps, just a good navigation sys-
tem. But Creally didn't need either. He knew where he was
going.
He found them, the whole squadron assembled on a high
plateau a few kilometers west of the lake bed. Seeing the
men swarming over the decks of the patrol craft, Creally
precipitously dropped his vehicle into a gully, then cau-
tiously hovered up until, standing in the cockpit, his eyes
were just above the level of the plateau. The men were
working in teams, taking out odd-looking hardware and
mounting it on the outside of the craft. And they were all
dressed alike. Not in radiation suits but in camouflaged
overalls, a small triangular patch on their shoulders bear-
ing the insignia of a golden helix. Watching them, Creally
thought he spotted Sneeling amid the men, going from ship
to ship as if supervising the activity. What were those in-
struments? Holocameras? Sensors? Recorders? The men
began picking up their tools, and Creally quickly took off.
13

PERFECT PEOPLE
73
As he left the hill he saw far behind him the billowing
clouds of dust and sand rising from where the squadron
had stood. They were coming toward him. Pushing the
two-seater as fast as it could go, he skimmed over the lake
bed, heading for the delta. Finding a thicket of scrub and
brush near the gorge, he rammed his craft blindly into the
dense growth, smashing its landing gear and cracking the
windshield. He jumped out and was ripping loose brush to
hide his craft when he heard the squadron's approach.
Ducking under the vehicle, he looked up through the
branches in time to see the ships pass overhead, the squad-
ron of six ships following the boundary of the gorge, trav-
eling in a quiet, tight formation.
Creally crept forward through the underbrush toward
the ships that now hovered behind the rim of the cliffs,
poised a short distance from the delta. The ships suddenly
started to move and he could hear the deep growl of the
gunned engines, the surprised shouts of the people down in
the delta as the craft fell into file and, one after another,
disappeared into the chasm. There were cries. A series of
bright flashes. Terrified screams. More flashes. A volley of
loud reports. A thunderous explosion reverberated in the
chasm. Forgetting himself, Creally stood up and broke into
a wild run. When he reached the edge of the cliff and
peered down, he discovered the cones in flames. One of the
patrol crafts lay upside down on the chasm floor, its en-
gines running wild. The ground was littered with the bod-
ies of Hairy Ones. Two Perfects lay sprawled face down in
one of the brooks. The remaining tribe members were fran-
tically scattering in all directions. From his vantage,
Creally could see that the gorge was already sealed, armed
men stationed and waiting at either end. Some of the Hairy
Ones had weapons and were shooting at the patrol ships,
trying to cover the escape of the others. A ship swooped
down toward an armed couple. The man and woman
turned and shot at the craft, but their projectiles had no
effect. Directing the long tube on its deck toward them, the

74
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
craft simply cut them down with two white threads of
light, their bodies spontaneously popping into flames. The
tube then moved in calm sequence, taking out another
man, a child, two women. At the far side of the gorge, a
ship was slowly hovering over an old man who was trying
to scale the sheer wall. In an instant, there was another
flash and the man's body plummeted to the rocks below.
Creally gasped. All around him echoed the wails and
screams of the Hairy Ones as they tried to flee. Up the
gorge, a woman with bloated belly was trying to slip away,
dragging a little spring with each hand. The men were
waiting for her. Creally wanted to shout a warning but
nothing came out, and he watched in horror as they dis-
patched her with a single thread, leaving the springs wail-
ing in terror over her smoking corpse. Another two bursts
and the springs were quiet, the gorge was still.
The ships pulled back and the men systematically swept
in from the ends, tightening the net, their sniffers and por-
table weapons at the ready. Creally could now hear the
men talking, chatting as they moved in. They found an
infant hidden under a bush and dispatched it without a
second thought. A woman who moaningly lifted herself on
an elbow was surgically silenced.
"Oh, there's one," remarked one of the men, spotting a
boy-spring hidden high in the boughs of a tree.
"Here, let me get him," said another who, not even
bothering to lift his weapon, discharged it from waist level,
picking off the kid with a series of casually directed
threads.
Creally had to get away. He got up to run but heard a
noise to one side and froze. His eyes swept the line of the
gorge. There was a scampering in the brush at the edge of
the cliff. A bush moved. Some small stones cascaded down
the wall. A hand came over the lip of the gorge. Another
hand. Someone was climbing. Creally's eyes nervously
darted around, sweeping the area. Then, impulsively, he
rushed forward and, grabbing both hands, yanked the per-

PERFECT PEOPLE
75
son up over the edge in a single jerk. It was a young
woman. A girl-spring. When she saw him, she let out a
terrified scream. He clamped his hand over her mouth and,
in a single motion, had her up on her feet, dragging her as
she flailed out at him.
When they were clear of the lip, he pulled her to the
ground, falling with his body on top of hers, his hand still
pressed to her mouth. Wild with fear, she fought and
kicked. She tried to bite his fingers. Pry his hands loose.
Scream through her sealed mouth.
"Shut up!" he hissed. "Stop fighting! I'm trying to help
you!"
She stopped.
"Please," he pleaded. "I want to get you out of here.
Don't you understand?"
She stared up at him with widened, crazed eyes.
"Can you be quiet?"
She nodded. Cautiously he lifted his hand, still holding
her pinned under the weight of his body.
She gasped. He rolled off her.
For a brief moment, she remained lying on the ground,
catching her breath. Then she was up, scrambling to get
away. Creally tackled her and brought her down with a
thud.
Then from behind, they heard the shouts of the men
from the squadron coming closer. They had already picked
up her trail with a sniffer.
"Come on!" he whispered desperately and, confused, she
relented. They crawled through the brush, the voices be-
hind them getting louder.
"Hey, there's another one over here somewhere," called
one of the men, and it was Sneeling's voice, Creally was
sure of it.
"This way. Here. Hurry!" Grabbing the girl-spring by
the arm, Creally pulled her forward, and together they
broke into a run, weaving around the scrub, tearing

76
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
through the undergrowth, branches and thorns ripping at
their flesh.
When they finally reached his craft, Creally flung open
the cockpit, pushed the girl-spring down behind the seats,
and sealed the craft. With shaking fingers, he punched in
the Joordi code. The engines came up on line and began to
hum. Thrusting the craft into reverse, Creally smashed
through the growth, dizzily weaving out between the trees.
And then they were clear and free, skimming full speed
over the high plateau, and Creally was vomiting helplessly
into his own lap.
"Where are you taking me?" he heard her ask from be-
hind. They were her first words and she spoke in a dialect
that had a tinge of Olderage to it—a touch of the ancient
world before Creatoria's existence.
Creally didn't answer. His whole body was still trem-
bling.
"Are you going to kill me?"
He turned around to look at the young woman behind
the seat. She was sitting up, tears coursing down her dirt-
smeared cheeks. Though obviously terrified, there was nev-
ertheless a look of defiance on her face.
"Of course not!"
"Why not? You're one of them."
"No. I'm not. I'm trying to help you. Believe me," he
said, but could see she didn't trust him. She wiped some of
14

PERFECT PEOPLE
77
the dirt off her face with her sleeve and Creally was sur-
prised to see how pretty she was. Her face was heart-
shaped, her eyes dark and bright, her lips full and expres-
sive. There was a fine covering of down on her arms, a hint
of it on her upper lip. He turned back to the controls,
looked out over the far expanse of domes, and tried to
figure out what to do with her.
"If you're trying to help me, then take me back to my
family," she said. "I've got to do something to save them."
He drew a long breath and let it out. There was still a
sob stuck in his chest. "We can't go back."
"But I have to!" He could hear her weeping again. He
tried to explain, but she didn't seem able to accept that
they were all dead.
"But maybe someone . . ."
"No one," he said tersely, and then it dawned on him.
He finally understood Weems's odd behavior. It wasn't
odd. Weems had known. He had known right from the
very beginning that the holes had been made by humans.
And those troops—they had been waiting all the time.
Waiting for Creally, their bright and ambitious little P.M.,
to do their dirty work, to locate the tribe. How else could
they have gotten there so fast? Weems had been running
him from the beginning. They had been waiting for some
idiot to come along and do exactly what he had done. But
who were they?
For a moment, there was silence. Then she asked,
"What are you going to do with me?"
"I don't know," he answered, and realized he was prob-
ably stuck with her.
"Well, then just take me back," she said as if reading his
mind. "Please."
"I can't. They'll get you. They've got sniffers along that
can pick up one part in ten billion."
She didn't know what he was talking about. "I can take
care of myself."
"Maybe. But this whole area's going to be crawling.

78
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
They're going to be out for days, combing the place, look-
ing for stragglers."
In the valley ahead, the familiar domes stood dancing in
the convected heat of the late afternoon. He still had no
idea what to do with her, but he continued to boost toward
the farm complex. Why, he was still thinking, why did they
do it? Why kill those innocent people?
"Just let me go. That's all I ask of you."
"C.'s sake! Let you go where? Turn you loose in the
desert? Huh?" He was raising his voice at her, he knew,
because he was furious at himself. He lowered the craft
into a ravine and, putting it into hover, turned to look at
her again. He had an idea. A crazy idea. He studied her.
Her head was well shaped, her features even. Her cheek-
bones were prominent, sufficiently high. Her eyes, a deep
hazel, were set wide apart and were almost almond-
shaped. Her body was muscular, anomalously muscular,
but, though she seemed a little on the short side, she was
nevertheless long-waisted and leggy.
"What are you looking at?" she asked, getting nervous
under his stare.
"I'm thinking," he answered distractedly. One trouble
was her hair. It was an odd, reddish auburn. Hardly any-
thing even close to one of the certified colors. He took her
chin gently in his hands and turned her head from side to
side. She pulled away.
"With a little luck and a couple of changes, you might
pass for a Nearly Perfect."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm thinking of taking you back. Where I live."
"I live here." She started to cry again.
"It'd just be for a little while," he said. It had to be. He
couldn't hope to get away with more. "Then I can bring
you back. Here." He tried to sound upbeat but was already
anticipating all the problems of just smuggling her into
Creatoria. But after what he had done, he had to at least
try to save one of them. "It won't be forever."

PERFECT PEOPLE
79
"I can't. My family," she said, weeping desolately into
her hands. "I have to go back and bury them."
Creally reached over and cautiously put his arm around
her shoulders. She let it lie there as her body was wracked
with sobs.
"You have to leave. Your family would want you to
leave. Would want you to go on living," he said gently and,
as her weeping became a wail, he felt overcome by an inex-
plicable need to protect her. "Don't worry," he said softly.
"I'll take care of you. Come, hide in here." He moved her
down below the seats again. Then, taking over the con-
trols, he lifted the craft and headed for the barracks. He
checked his timepiece. There was still an hour before din-
ner. With some luck, the barracks would be empty. He'd
take her in, get her cleaned up and dressed, and slip her
out before the workers came back.
"What's your name?"
"Wendy," she answered weakly.
"Wendy," he repeated and thought, What an odd name.
"My name is Creally. Creally Leemling. I'm a rank-two
P.M."
Leaving the girl-spring hidden in the parked craft,
Creally went into the barracks. The mess was empty. In
his cubicle he hurriedly stripped off his stained skin and
donned a fresh one. Then he checked out the other rooms,
his mind working feverishly. He needed a skin for her. A
packed kit to make her look like a traveler. A little color
for her face—just a blush of gold. Some makeup too. Her
hair will be the big trick, he thought, checking the last
cubicle and finding it, too, empty. Creally ran back
through the mess and down the tube to the waiting craft.
"Wendy?" he whispered.
She peeked her head out from behind the seat.
"Okay. Let's go." Taking her by the hand, he rushed her
down the corridor, through the mess, and into his quar-
ters. Quickly he sealed the port. Dazed, she looked around

80
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
the brightly lit cubicle, staring suspiciously at the recliner,
the vleemer, the gadgets attached to the walls.
"Over here," he said, moving her toward the sanitizing
compartment. "Take all this stuff off," he tugged at her
garb.
"My dress?" she asked, shocked.
"Yeah. Everything." He pushed the initiate button
and the warm mist slowly started to rise. "Move fast,
please."
She hesitated.
"I'll get you some new garb," he said, and left the room.
He went into one of the neighboring women's cubicles and,
riffling through the belongings, came up with a woman's
skin and a pair of boots that looked like they would fit. He
found an empty kit and stuffed it with odds and ends to
give it bulk. In another cubicle he found some makeup and
bronzing. In the kitchen behind the mess, he helped him-
self to some plank coloring, a bottle of brown and one of
yellow.
When he returned to his quarters with laden arms, she
was standing naked at the door to the sanitizing compart-
ment, her back turned to him.
"For C.'s sake, get in," he insisted as she grabbed her
dress to cover up. "We haven't got all day." He held open
the door and reluctantly she stepped into the mist. Closing
the compartment, he put the sanitizer into fast-rinse mode.
When the cycle was complete and she stood there wet, he
opened the door a little.
"Here, Wendy, just put your head out," he called.
She stuck out her dripping head. Taking the plank col-
oring, he poured most of the brown and a touch of the
yellow into her hair and quickly worked it down to her
scalp with his fingers. He stood back, examined the wet
color in the light, added a touch more of yellow, then
closed the door and punched in the final mode. In a mo-
ment she was dry, her hair remisted and fluffed. She stuck
her head out again for him to check. It looked pretty good.

PERFECT PEOPLE
81
The reddish hues were gone and it was a full, deep brown.
When she stepped out and reached for her dress, he caught
a glimpse of her from the front and knew he had another
problem. She had hair. A mound of it on her pubis. A little
under her arms.
He rushed from the room and returned a moment later
with a trimmer.
"That hair," he said, motioning vaguely to the point
between her legs hidden by the garb clutched to her front.
"It'll show right through a skin. You'll have to get rid of
it." He held the humming trimmer out to her and she
jerked away. "It doesn't bite. Here." He ran it softly over
her arm, buzzing it clean of down. "See? Okay. Now you
do it." He turned his back and heard her going to work.
"And hurry. We don't have much time left. Everybody's
going to be coming back in a few minutes. They'll know
you don't belong here. . . . Oh, be sure to get it under
your arms too."
When she was finished, he reached out behind him and
handed her a skin. After she had slipped in as best she
could, he showed her how it sealed about her seamlessly.
He helped her on with the boots. Once he seated her on the
edge of the recliner, he went to work on her face, applying
a thick blush of bronze. He circled her eyes with a dark
ring of eyeliner as he had seen Veena do countless times,
added a dab of pewter-color shadow to her upper lids,
painted her lips a soft pink. When he was finished, he had
her stand and turn full circle.
"My C.," he uttered in awe. "You look as good as any
Nearly Perfect. In fact, better!"
She seemed totally indifferent. He gathered her garb up
off the floor, put the stuffed kit into her hands, and led her
out into the corridor. She followed him as he briskly
moved past the lines of empty cubicles. When they entered
the mess, Creally pulled her to an abrupt stop. His heart
plummeted. There, blocking their escape, was Zraak, sit-

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ROBERT LIEBERMAN
ting at the long table hunched over a bowl of plank, his
back turned to them.
Clutching Wendy's hand, Creally walked her toward the
exit, trying to block her so that Zraak couldn't get a good
look. Hearing the sound of their steps, the grower slowly
turned. His face had a vacant, glassy-eyed look, and when
Creally saw it he shuddered.
"Zraak! What'd they do to you?"
The grower gave a slow, idiotic smile. "Me? Nothing,"
he answered with stilted, mechanical affect. "I'm doing
very well, thank you." And Creally realized that they were
safe, that Zraak, for all his blasphemy and candor, had
again received the ultimate reward.
Once he had Wendy safely hidden back in the craft,
Creally rushed over to the communications room in the
office complex. Employing his P.M. status on the holocon,
he had the Mainframe spit out the list of passengers who
had been on his suborbital boost. On the manifest he found
the Ministrator. Using her name and listed I.D., he tapped
into the National Ministry's budget, made an additional
allowance for travel, transferred the amount to Transport
Services, and, within a minute, had created a valid travel
voucher for Wendy.
"Ready?" he asked, jumping into the cockpit. He put on
a bright face for her benefit. Despite the blush of bronze,
she looked pale and miserable. "Come on, you can sit up
front now."
As the engines kicked in, Creally helped her over the
seat. He backed the craft out of the dock and, hovering up,
pulled a wide arc around the office complex and barracks.
As they boosted eastward, he could see behind him the
first workers coming in over the domes for dinner.

At the transport station, Creally waited until Wendy was
out and clear of the craft. Then, reaching in through the
open cockpit, he programmed it on auto and yanked his
hand out. The battered craft slid backward, hovered up,
and shot headlong across the sky. In another couple of
hours it would be deep in the desert. Unless they knew
where to look, no one would ever find it.
"Stay close to me," he whispered as they moved down
the tube toward the terminal. "Look straight ahead and
smile. Come on, smile."
She smiled. A big, phony grin.
"No, no. A little smile. A pleasant smile. Like this," he
showed her and she imitated him.
"Good. That's great," he encouraged, but he was still
nervously thinking about tracks. He had cleared the
holocon screen. He had dumped her garb from the air over
a deserted stretch of shifting dunes. The plank coloring
had been returned to its place in the kitchen. The voucher
was clean. Created with funds drawn from a valid budget,
it was for a real person who regularly traveled. As far as he
could see, there were only a couple of loose ends. A craft
would be reported missing. A woman would find herself
minus a few articles of garb. He would be late returning to
Creatoria. Yet there was still nothing that directly pointed
to his having witnessed the massacre, nothing that could
indicate he was smuggling a Hairy One into the very heart
of Creatoria. Creally thought about Zraak. The poor
flanker, zeroed out for the third time, was in no condition
15

84
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
to remember much of anything. He wondered if he would
ever bounce back again and just how much insult the hu-
man system could endure.
In the terminal there were people. Creally scanned the
central plaza. Maybe fifteen or twenty people. Some had
just arrived. A number were boarding the Creatoria-bound
transport. A trio of Perfects sat in a corner, quietly talking.
No one was looking at them. He glanced at Wendy as she
walked at his side. It's no good, he thought. Despite the
getup, in context among Perfects and Nearly Perfects, she
looked out of place. The smile didn't work. She was
slouching a little. There was a noticeable lumber to her
walk. And she was sulking.
"Smile," he whispered. "Keep smiling."
It'll never work, he thought as they moved toward the
tube leading to the transport. Yet no one seemed to be
paying them any mind. Maybe it was he? Maybe he was
too jumpy?
all passengers for suborb three seventeen
board immediately. t minus three and counting.
"This way." He ushered her out of the plaza and down
the long tube. In front of them, the last passengers were
passing through the turnstile. If only I can get her into
Creatoria, he thought, get her hidden away somewhere. She
would, at least, have a chance. He would have to teach her
everything. How to walk. How to talk. How to smile and
move like any other Creatorian. Oh, dear C., he worried,
how did I ever get myself into this mess?
t minus two and counting.
They stopped at the turnstile. Creally punched up her
voucher. Waited. Someone moved up behind him. A man.
A green clearance flashed. With an imperceptible push,
Creally moved Wendy through the turnstile. Turning,
Creally smiled at the man behind him. The man smiled
back. He looked at Wendy who stood waiting for Creally
and smiled. Creally held his breath. She pulled a faint
smile. The man nodded. It worked. Quickly Creally

PERFECT PEOPLE
85
punched in, got his clearance, and rushed her up the gang-
plank.
On the transport they traveled in silence. Creally had
placed Wendy in the inside position and for most of the
journey she stared glumly out the porthole. Creally's mind
didn't stop working. He was trying to figure out where he
could hide her, how he would feed her, how he could buy
time. He would have to deal with Veena. With Weems.
Would the chief question him about his late arrival? Real-
ize that he had purposely missed a suborb? Would Sneeling
ever mention that they had run into each other at the
transport station? The more he thought about it, the more
loose ends kept popping up. Well, there was no backing
out, he told himself. He had the girl-spring with him and
they were irrevocably Creatoria bound.
"There are a couple of things you ought to know right
away," he said in a whisper, breaking the silence, "before
we arrive."
She turned away from the darkened porthole to look at
him. Blast it, there were tears on her cheeks. The bronzing
was streaked. Her eyeliner was beginning to smear. He
shook his head sternly and with his fingers quickly rubbed
her cheeks dry. How could he keep her from crying? A
woman across the aisle glanced at them. Creally turned a
smile on her. She returned it and then looked away.
"All right, listen carefully." He moved his head close to
hers. "The first thing you've got to know is that all airlocks
and ports in Creatoria have capabilities for facial, body,
and voice recognition."
She looked baffled. Creally backtracked and tried to ex-
plain again.
"They can tell who you are. The people who have lived
in our city for many generations have a certain look to
them. Like you look now, except that you don't look like
them to the sensors. And you're not in the registration
bank."

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ROBERT LIEBERMAN
She looked more confused.
"What I'm saying is"—he tried to mask his impatience
-—"never go through a port alone. They'll sense that you
don't belong there—no matter what mode they're in."
"Mode?"
"Yeah, like if they're watching your face, or listening to
your voice."
"The ports are people?"
"No, but they're like people. And they're always watch-
ing."
She nodded reluctant understanding.
"And please, when you're out among people or near the
ports, don't talk. Not a word. It's a dead giveaway."
She looked at him mistrustfully.
"Just for a little while," he quickly added. "Until you've
learned how to speak right. It'll be easy, you'll see." He
patted her hand. "I know this is not fun for you, but we
have to make the best of it, okay?"
Sadly jutting out her lower lip to keep from crying, she
nodded again.
Creally had hoped to explain to her how the data from
the port was used to establish a statistical recognition pro-
file; how that profile, gathered over the years for each liv-
ing citizen, provided the Mainframe with a norm; and
how, if a person precipitously changed his movements, a
signal was automatically sent to P.M. Headquarters. Try-
ing to explain all these intricacies—things that even aver-
age Creatorians didn't know—seemed for the moment
hopeless. It would only overload her. Instead he tried to
concentrate on immediate practicalities.
"The ports, the watching ports, have a weakness," he
continued, his voice barely audible above the engines.
"Not many people know about it, but there's a fractional
delay between 'lookings.' What I mean is"—Creally strug-
gled—"if you stay behind, right behind someone who is
allowed to go through a port, you won't be seen. When
you're with me and we're going through a port, always

PERFECT PEOPLE
87
press up behind me. Never talk. Never let yourself be ex-
posed."
"Where am I going to stay?"
"I've been thinking about that."
"Do you have a tent for me?" she asked sotto voce.
"Tent?"
She made a sign with her hands.
"Oh, a cone," he laughed, then caught himself. "Not
exactly."
"Am I going to stay with you?"
"Well . . ." He thought of Veena. "I don't think that
would work. We're going to have to keep you hidden."
"Oh." She sounded deflated.
"Just till we get things sorted out."
Though it was late, Weems was still in his office, obviously
waiting for Creally.
"Oh, good, you're back," he looked up and smiled.
"Come right in. Sit down. We've got to talk."
Creally walked in and sat down. He was ready with a
hundred contrived explanations, but there was not a word
about being late. Maybe with all the troops, murder, and
confusion he had been forgotten in the shuffle. Or was it a
game? Were they watching him?
"First of all, congratulations on a job well done. We're
all very pleased."
"Well, thank you, sir." Creally sat erect in his chair.
16

88
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
Weems reached to his console, took a draft of stima, and
held out the spigot to Creally, who politely declined.
"I know you're curious about the fate of these Im-
perfects."
"Well, I know it's not my business anymore, but . . .
yeah, I am curious," he answered, looking back at the
chief unflinchingly.
"Perfectly understandable." Weems smiled indulgently,
and Creally had to resist the urge to reach out and throttle
him. "Now that we've discovered them, these people need
to be helped and protected."
"It's our responsibility," Creally agreed with a smile as
he wondered if Weems had an inkling of what he was up
to.
"At this very minute these people are already under our
care. The Social Ministry has made generous provisions
for them. Immediate medical attention. Plans for tempo-
rary resettlement. They were hungry too, many of them
suffering from severe malnutrition."
"Yes, I thought so," said Creally. "That's probably why
they were stealing."
"Well, now they don't have to steal any more, do they?"
Weems gave a self-satisfied grin, and Creally could see that
he was watching him closely. "A whole new and wonder-
ful world awaits these forgotten people. We're even plan-
ning an entire educational program for them with the hope
of ultimate integration into our society. Malnutrition,
medical deficiencies, infant mortality, bodily sex—all will
be things of the past."
Creally felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead and
hoped that Weems didn't notice. Letting a small smile play
over his face, he wondered how it was possible for any
person, a Perfect at that, to lie so remorselessly. If they
could get away with this, what else were they doing?
"Naturally, before we can bring them here, we'll have to
instill in them a sense of personal pride, convince them of

PERFECT PEOPLE
89
the need to cease some of their unhealthy, asocial activi-
ties."
Creally played dumb. "Yeah, I suppose so," he agreed.
"Of course, they will have to willingly engage in our
program of genetic perfection. Puts us back quite a ways in
their case, doesn't it?" he asked rhetorically, and Creally
gave a sympathetic shrug. "But we've got to remember,
even our Creator of Creators was an Imperfect," Weems
beamed with goodness. "Take my word for it, Creally,
they will be cared for. If these people can live up to it, all
the blessings and benefits of full Creatorian citizenship will
be bestowed upon them."
Creally looked very pleased. "Well, I've got to confess,"
he finally admitted, "I was a little worried about them."
He was sure that Weems knew he was smart enough to
realize he was being observed. But did he know, did he
suspect anything about Wendy? If they zeroed him out, the
girl-spring was lost. "You know, I'd like to go back and
visit them some day," said Creally, buying insurance.
"Oh sure, of course. Some day. But first we have some
plans for you too," Weems continued, and Creally's heart
began to thump. "Special plans," the chief smiled. "Not
only have you put an end to the sabotage at the solar farm,
but you've helped uncover a fairly sizable plank embezzle-
ment that could have continued virtually forever."
Creally tried to look proud. Weems, the miserable
flanker, had known from the beginning about the stolen
plank. Zraak had been right. There was no need for a black
market. All the high-level bureaucrats and administrators
were probably in on it, skimming extra rations.
"There's a promotion coming," said Weems. "Not offi-
cial yet, mind you—"
Creally masked his suspicion with elated surprise.
"—but coming. It looks like you're going to be moved to
rank-one," he said and paused.
Creally held his breath.
"If this goes through, I don't have to tell you what it's

90
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
going to mean. And not just for you. But for Veena. And
your new spring. Just think of it."
"I can't believe it!" Creally forced an excited laugh.
"It's going to mean a new and larger dwelling. In a
better sector. At a deeper level. More generous rations of
plank. Sometimes even a little unexpected bonus." He gave
a wink and Creally let it pass without a reaction. Why is he
spelling this all out? he wondered. Why? "It means the
opportunity for more springs. Now, I know that would
make Veena happy, right?"
Creally nodded gratefully. How did he know that?
"But, most important of all," Weems went on with his
enticing litany, "it will make you—as I'm sure you realize
—the first Nearly Perfect in the history of the Force to
have ever risen to rank-one. You will be a source of pride
not just to your mate, but an example to society as a
whole. Now, what do you have to say about that?"
"Well . . . well ..." Creally purposely stammered
and thought, If he knows about the girl-spring, he wouldn't
be playing this game, would he? "Well, I'm just . . . just
speechless! I just never . . . Well, sir . . ." he gushed and
thought, You rotten, crawling clunk of plooma; you killer
with blood on your hands, sitting there across from me
with your golden flush and Perfect smile; I could kill you,
Weems, kill you with my bare hands; strangle that perfect
neck of yours. "How can I ever thank you?"
"No need for gratitude," Weems held up his hand in a
magnanimous gesture. "You've earned it, Creally. And just
think of it, we'll be colleagues!" He laughed.
Creally didn't even want to think of it. "That's gonna be
strange. I wouldn't even know how to—"
"With that elevation, of course"—Weems turned serious
—"will come responsibility." The chief looked him deep in
the eye, and Creally noticed that the corner of his mouth
was quivering. "Responsibility and . . . and, well, let's
call it a measure of discretion. Yes, that's the word. Discre-
tion. You do understand the need for it, don't you?"

PERFECT PEOPLE
91
Creally looked at him, feigning innocent puzzlement.
"We don't want the world just yet to know about these
unusual, primitive people, do we?"
Creally waited.
"Can't have a rush of people boosting out there to gawk
at these poor Imperfects as if they were just animals in a
museum, now could we? It'd ruin everything. Make our
efforts at integration all but impossible. You do under-
stand, don't you?"
"If you say so, sir."
"Yes, I say so. And don't call me sir anymore. You can
call me Haamlin now. We're going to be equals, aren't
we?" he said, rising and approaching Creally with a grand
smile. "Equals," he repeated as Creally rose to his feet.
"Now go and tell Veena the good news. Be One."
Creally mumbled a grateful One, went to the port, and
then stopped. "But, sir," he asked without turning, "what
about the debriefing?"
"Consider yourself debriefed. If there's anything we
need to know, we can always question you later, can't
we?"
The storage room was up on old first level, located behind
the garage where the P.M. emergency vehicles were
parked. The room was dark and damp, a tumble of junk.
There were dusty shelves and racks crammed with odd bits
of machinery, armatures and coils with tangles of wire, old
17

92
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
bottles with corroded tops. Stacked in high piles were parts
scavenged from old emergency vehicles, pieces of commu-
nication gear long since forgotten. Some of the overhead
pipes were dripping, there were patches of grease on the
floor, and the air had a pervasive chemical odor.
Before Creally's meeting with Weems, he had slipped
Wendy into the P.M. complex, brought her up to the stor-
age chamber.
"I know it's not exactly beautiful," Creally said, "but
it's the safest place you could be for the time being. You're
right above Headquarters. Nobody'd ever think of looking
for you up here."
"It's all right," she said, hugging herself to fight the
chilling dampness. "I can make it."
"It'll just be a place to hide out until I can come up with
something better."
"You don't have to apologize." She tried to put on a
good face. "I appreciate what you're doing."
"Here. Follow me." He went to the rear. "We'll make
you a little hiding place here."
Creally took hold of a heavy rack and dragged it up
against a corner, leaving a narrow space. As he pulled
another into position, she came and helped him slide it
over the floor.
"Good," he said, puffing and trying to catch his breath.
"We'll put a third one here."
When they finished moving the shelves, they had created
a maze with a small hidden space at its end.
Creally had then gone down to the P.M. offices. From
the soma station he took a few blankets and pillows.
Sneaking into the area used for holding springs in short-
term protective custody, he had borrowed a small, portable
holoprojector and some hololessons. The snack bar was
already closed, but Creally managed to slip into one of the
storage units, and he loaded up on cookies and cold plank
broth. When he got back, Wendy was standing in the hid-

PERFECT PEOPLE
93
ing place, shivering. It was more from exhaustion, Creally
realized, than cold.
"Put this around you." He opened a blanket and
wrapped it around her shoulders. "How's that?"
"Good," she said, pulling it tight, but she was still trem-
bling.
"Here. Eat some of this."
Ravenously she had stuffed her mouth with cookies.
"Better?"
"Yeah," she nodded.
Creally rubbed her back and arms from the outside of
the blanket, until she stopped shaking. What a racket and
noise here, he was thinking, his ears still unaccustomed to
Creatoria. Even this remote chamber seemed to be flooded
with the background din of the city, the pounding of hid-
den machinery, the sound of recycled air pumped in
through the louvres. And the air, too, seemed foreign. It
felt sour and dead, had none of the sweetness and clarity of
the desert.
"Let's make you a bed here," he suggested, placing two
of the blankets on the floor with the pillows on top. "Not
bad," he said, and without prompting she came and lay
down.
"I've got to go now," he said. Weems would be waiting
for him.
"Do you have to?"
"I'll be back. I promise," he smiled. She looked at him
so forlornly that he couldn't leave. He sank down on the
blanket next to her. "Let me show you something. This is a
holoprojector. It's got a little earpiece. Put this in your ear.
Yeah. Like that." He slid in one of the discs. Projected into
the tight confines of her hiding space was a scene of two
little springs playing with a ball. There were words pro-
jected out under the scene. "Ball. Boy-spring. Girl-spring.
Play."
"Can you hear it?"
She nodded.

94
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"I know it's too elementary, but you can listen to the
sound, try to study the speech patterns. Watch the way
people here move. The facial expressions. Like that.
There!" A mother with a smile came up on line. Wendy
nodded again.
Creally got up to leave, but her hand had reached out to
hold him.
"I've got to go," he said reluctantly, trying to pull away.
"Oh, wait. I've got something for you." Reaching into his
pocket, he pulled out the pink artifact he had found in the
stream by the delta.
"Our doll," she whispered. Holding it close to her, she
struggled to hold back the tears that sprang to her eyes.
"I'll be back." He stroked her cheek.
Then he left her to go down and face Weems who—just
as he suspected—was still in his office, eagerly waiting for
him.
When he came back after the meeting, Wendy was sleep-
ing. He sat down on the edge of the blanket and watched
her as she slept, the doll clutched in her hand. Her face
was soft and young and had, for the first time, a look of
serenity on it. If only she could have that air of peace about
her when she's awake, he thought. If only there were some
way I could give her back her old life.
She must have sensed his presence, because she opened
her eyes and stared up at him. The peaceful look was gone.
"Oh, it's you," she said sleepily.
"Hi," he whispered. "You okay?"
She gave a faint nod.
"Good. Go back to sleep." He had the urge to put his
face close to hers and hold her, but resisted. Instead he
lightly patted her hand. "I'll see you tomorrow morning,"
he murmured, "okay?"

Creally was barely in the port when Veena, tossing her pet
woolly from her lap, flung herself into his arms.
"Creally, darling, I heard the good news!" The mechani-
cal woolly lay on its back, clawing helplessly at the air.
"News?" He wondered what she was on, but she looked
clear-eyed and sober.
"The promotion. I'm so excited."
Creally looked confused.
"Chief Weems told me about it."
He tried to hide his surprise.
"Of course, he wouldn't tell me what it was for. Some
hush-hush business out at the solar farm, but—it is true,
isn't it?" She paused and pulled back to look at him.
"What's the matter? You haven't done anything again
to—"
"No. It's true," he nodded.
"But you're not excited. This is what you wanted,
right?"
Creally shrugged. He went over to the woolly and idly
turned it over with his foot. It quietly scooted off into its
storage box.
"The most incredible thing of a lifetime happens, you're
going to be a rank-one P.M., and you just shrug. What in
C.'s name is the matter?"
"I guess I'm tired," he smiled weakly.
"Sure," she smiled back at him. "You must be ex-
hausted." Her look was meant to reassure but it had an
18

96
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
underlying layer of apprehension. Veena went to the
kitchen console. "And you're probably starved."
"Don't bother. I can do that." He followed to help her.
"No, no." She held up a hand. "This time you just relax.
Lie down. Get cleaned up. Or use the vleemer. I'll take
care of everything."
Creally looked nervously at the vleemscan helmet.
"I know just what you like. A little piquant plank. And,
guess what? I picked up some of these lux cakes. I know
how you like them. Took almost two day's rations, but this
is a celebration, isn't it?" She turned to Creally.
He looked strained and heartsick, almost on the point of
tears.
"Creally." She came up to him, gently touched him on
the shoulders, and nuzzled her nose against his cheek.
"What's the matter?"
Creally swallowed. "I . . ." he began, "I was out in the
country . . ."
"Yes," she prompted.
"I was out in the country," he numbly repeated,
"around the lake beds on the edge of the desert." His
throat was dry and parched. In his mind's eye he was again
standing on the lip of the gorge, looking down, as the peo-
ple were scattering. He could hear their cries and agonized
screams, that strange popping sound every time a body
burst into flames.
"And?"
Creally caught himself.
"And?" She searched his distraught face.
"Nothing." He pulled himself together. "It was just very
hot. Incredibly hot. I think I'm a little sick."
Veena put her cool hand to his forehead. "You do feel
warm. Maybe we should take you to a soma station."
"No. No," he said, almost too quickly. "I just need to
take it easy tonight."
Veena pampered him. She brought Creally his dinner as
he lay on the sofa, idly looking at a gymnastics exhibition

PERFECT PEOPLE
97
on the holocon. She watched him attentively as he ate each
morsel, though he pretended not to notice her scrutiny.
She brought him a tall, cool drink. A thick, rich dessert.
"Feeling better?" she asked, taking away the empty tray.
"Yeah. Lots better."
"You know, while you were gone I had a lot of time to
think," she said while dabbing some pheremones behind
her ear. Creally tried to hide his uneasiness. He knew what
she wanted and what was expected. Any deviation in rou-
tine or habit was a potential tip-off. "I was thinking—"
She bent over him, bringing her head close to his. "Think-
ing how things haven't been so great lately. How maybe
we've drifted apart."
Despite himself, the pheremones were working. He
could feel an involuntary tumescence swelling his groin.
She stood up and began slipping out of her skin. Creally
watched her dispassionately. Despite the drugs and the
years that had passed, her body was stil! smooth and lean,
her golden-brown torso narrow-waisted and sculpted with
gentle curves just like the artifact the archeologist had
shown him, like the doll he had given Wendy. Her breasts
were small yet firm; her thighs gently tapered into long,
shapely legs; her buttocks generously rounded, yet hard
and well vleemed. Veena knew he was watching her.
"Come here," she said, extending an arm.
He took it, and she led him to their recliner where the
flanker stood waiting. Helping him out of his skin, she
flipped on the unit. The eye came on with a slow, dull glow
as they lay down on the warm, undulating recliner. There
was no need for words. He took the leads from the flanker
and held them on either side of her pubis as he had done so
many times before in their mated life.
"Ohhh . . ." She began to moan softly, almost immedi-
ately, her hips beginning to gyrate in rhythm to the slowly
flashing eye. Creally tried to concentrate but could feel
himself beginning to slip away—away to the solar farm,
lake bed, and hills.

98
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Creally," she uttered hoarsely and, knowing what she
wanted, he compliantly took his pinky and forced it
against the tightness of her slit. "Harder, harder," she
whispered and he obeyed, but kept thinking, The Hairy
Ones, those poor Hairy Ones.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" She let out a series of tentative, stifled
gasps and Creally, with his finger inserted in her, was
thinking how strange—here was a woman who always
played by the rules, strictly adhered to the social norms,
yet craved what verged on bodily sex. "Oh, C.! Oh, C.!"
she suddenly shrieked, shaking Creally from his thoughts.
The flanker, picking up her feedback, was now flashing
with bright, quick intensity. And with her hips rising from
the recliner and locking in space, her head thrown vio-
lently back, Veena emitted through clenched teeth a pri-
mordial, orgasmic ululation. "Aaaaaaaaah," she howled,
"ahhhhhhh!"
Gradually the flanker slowed, pulsed lovingly as Creally
worked the leads up Veena's belly and then back down
between her thighs, feeling the aftershocks racking her
body.
"Enough," she said breathlessly and, with her eyes still
closed, reached for the leads and brought them to Creally's
groin, to the points that after all the years she could find in
her sleep.
Creally submitted, trying to numb and dull his whirling
thoughts, telling himself this was what he needed—obliv-
ion, mindlessness, brainless flanking. And when she
touched him with the leads, he felt his body give a little
jump, a twitch as his nerves began to tingle and hum in
unison to the all-sensing, memoried eye that knew how to
bridge the synapses, fire the neurons in sure, synchronous
timing. Zimzimzimzimzimzimzim, he could feel the eye
burrowing through his groin and into his gut.
Zimzimzimzimzim, despite his efforts, his lids slid tightly
shut, only the light of the eye burning through.
Zimzimzimzimzim, he could feel the muscles deep in his

PERFECT PEOPLE
99
loins tightening. Zimzimzimzimzimzimzim, and he was
thinking about Wendy of all things. Her standing in his
cubicle back at the farm, trying to cover her nakedness.
Zimzimzimzimzim, he saw himself touching her, holding
her, his arms around her. "No, no, no, no," he cried out,
knowing the travesty that was emerging from his brain
and, in that instant, his body lurched, an ecstatic flash of
light crossed his eyes, his belly quivered. And then it was
over and he slumped into an exhausted sleep.
"Kill who? Kill who? Who? Who?"
"Creally!"
"Kill—"
"Creally!"
"Huh?" Creally opened his eyes and squinted in the
painful brightness of the early-morning illumination.
"Wake up."
Creally focused on Veena, looming above him.
"You must have had a terrible dream."
"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Yeah." Groggily Creally raised him-
self on an elbow. Looking around, disoriented, he seemed
surprised to discover himself in his dwelling.
"You were so exhausted last night you just conked out. I
didn't have the heart to wake you this morning. You feel-
ing okay?"
"Yeah. Sure." Creally swung his feet over the edge of the
recliner, touched the warm floor, and rubbed his creased
19

100
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
face. "Hey," he said, becoming alert and noticing Veena
already dressed and made up. "What time is it?"
"Time for me to run to work. You've got a few more
minutes. I tried to let you sleep as long as possible." Veena
smiled, but she still had that worried look in her eyes.
"You must have had a terrible dream."
Creally shrugged.
"You kept talking about killing someone."
"Me? Killing?" He laughed, though the dream still
frightened him.
"It scared me," she confessed.
"Just a crazy dream." He got to his feet and padded
over to her as she gathered her disks into her kit. "Come
on," he put a reassuring hand on each shouder. "You have
them too, right? And you should hear yourself," he lied.
She turned and looked at him anxiously, and he knew he
had been right not to confide in her.
"But you said 'kill him.' "
"Did I?"
"Yes!"
"Doesn't mean anything. I was dreaming about a joke
Weems told me," he chuckled to himself. "He started by
saying 'Listen, Creally, this is gonna kill you.' Now are
you going to worry about Weems too?"
She smiled uncertainly, then picked up her kit and stood
watching Creally as he went over to the sanitizer and
flipped it on.
"I was thinking of visiting our spring after work. Want
to come?"
"Of course," said Creally, opening the door and step-
ping into the concealing mist. "I've got to do some shop-
ping too, if I get the chance," he called out above the drone
of the sanitizer. "Only five more days till Creation Day. Or
is it six?"
"That'll be the first time you've ever remembered to go
shopping."
"Huh?" he called out.

PERFECT PEOPLE
101
"I said, it's not like you to go shopping."
"I'm full of wonderful surprises, aren't I? First I'm pro-
moted to rank-one. Next I'm going shopping. You should
be delighted."
"I am. It's just that . . ."
"Yeah?"
"If I didn't trust you as much as I do, I'd swear you
were up to something."
"Me?" He stuck his dripping head out. "Like what?"
"I don't know. That's what worries me."
"If I remember right," he said with a smile, "you were
also worried when I told you I was going out to the solar
farm. Right? Well, look what happened. Please, do me a
favor. Stop worrying."
The dream. He couldn't shake it. It was his brother
again, talking to him.
"Kill him!" Peleey had said.
"Kill who?"
"Kill him! Kill him!"
"Who? Who?"
Then Veena had jolted him awake.
As Creally dressed and got ready to go to work, the
dream hung with him. If the last one had made sense, then
this one had to. As Peleey had forewarned, there were
more out there. More people. Hairy Ones. But kill?
Creally went over to the kitchen console and poured
himself a dish of warm plank broth. He took a few sips,
then absently drained the dish. Sure he had been tempted
for an instant to kill Weems yesterday, but it had been a
fleeting fantasy. Even if he could do it, get away with it,
there was nothing to be gained. There were other Weemses.
Bigger ones. A whole bureaucracy of them. His job was
not retribution but to save Wendy. He was her only hope.
And sanity and levelheadedness was the key. Normalcy. A
low epsilon. Patterns that didn't deviate, he reasoned,
looking anxiously at the vleemer. To go another day at

102
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
home without using it would be tantamount to an admis-
sion that something was going on. They were watching
him. They had to be. His dwelling. The data moving in and
out of the holocons at his home and office. His movements
around Creatoria. If he were Weems, he would do the
same. Creally slowly moved toward the vleemscan helmet.
Once he slipped his brain under that helmet, ostensibly to
be exercised, they could do whatever they wanted to him.
In a matter of seconds he could emerge a zeroed-out zom-
bie with perfectly toned muscles. A gorgeous body with
the brain of plank. They would reintegrate him, make him
a new person, a new P.M., one that could go out and inflict
death with no history or morals to warn him off. Perhaps,
it suddenly occurred to him, perhaps at some point in his
life he had been zeroed out before. Like Zraak. Maybe he
didn't have a brother called Peleey. Or a father. Or a
mother. His whole memory and past could all have been
created and programmed into his brain. And what of
Veena? Who was she? Who was anybody? Eleey? Weems?
Sneeling?
Kill who? Here he was thinking the unthinkable. Mur-
der. But who? Why?
The vleemer. It stood there silently goading him, re-
minding him of his dilemma. If he avoided it, he would be
suspect. If he used it, he would have to face the Main-
frame. It was always probing, sampling. Turmoil, obses-
siveness, feelings of guilt or secretive thoughts, any or all
of these, he knew, were enough to trigger an alarm.
Standing before the helmet, Creally recalled the dream
in which his father had spoken to him. Suddenly he
thought he understood what his father had been trying to
suggest. Nonsense was the answer, junk to mask his wor-
ries and feed the Mainframe, encouraging it to move on to
the next happy brain spouting trivia. He slipped on the
helmet, activated it, and began reciting to himself.
"Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock . . ."

PERFECT PEOPLE
103
He could feel the vleemer starting at his toes, working
those muscles that had fallen into disuse since the trip.
"Hickory . .
Were they probing? Stop thinking.
". . . dickory . . ."
The vleemer was working his stomach. And he could
feel it now, probing his outer thoughts.
"Hickorydickorydockhickorydickorydockhickory ..."
Chest. Neck. Facial muscles. Scalp.
"HICKORYDICKORYDOCKHICKORYDICK-
ORYDOCKHICKORYDICKORY . . ."
Then it was over. The helmet was off. Creally stood
under it, motionless, damp with sweat, the muscles of his
body humming. His mind was still his, still working. He
hadn't been zeroed out. He was safe—safe at least for the
moment.
At P.M. Headquarters, Creally made himself highly visi-
ble. He chatted with Aarendeno. Wandered the corridor.
Dropped in on Nuudey at the lab just to say hello. She was
all questions.
"What about the fibers? The metal shards? The hair?"
"Artifacts."
"Huh?"
"Things from the past."
Nuudey looked very puzzled.
20

104
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"From an earlier civilization. Do you still have the sam-
ples?"
"Sure."
Creally took them. Fortunately, she had not run any
carbon dating on them.
He ran into Weems just as the chief was leaving Head-
quarters for a high-level meeting in the central government
office.
"I thought you might want to have these," he said,
dropping the vials into Weems's hands.
"Oh, yes. Thanks," said Weems, and didn't have to ask
what they were.
Then Creally was off to the briefing room to meet with
the ten people on his Domestic Affairs Squad. Moorty,
who had taken over in his absence, quickly filled him in on
the status of new and pending cases.
"We're still getting a lot of phony reports out of Tau
sector," she said, punching up the list and displaying it for
the group. "There's a bad mix of Perfects and Nearly Per-
fects on the second level and they're constantly reporting
each other for all kinds of infractions. We've even had a
spurious report of an eleven-year-old girl-spring selling
bodily sex. They've been keeping us running all week."
"We've got to check them out," said Creally. "That's
our job. Anything else, Moorty? What about the missing
spring from Iota?"
"I gave that to our two new people," she said, referring
to the two rookies sitting up intently in the back. They
were a pair of male and female Perfects who looked to
Creally to be barely in their twenties.
"Welcome aboard," said Creally with a smile.
They smiled back a bit shyly.
"Anything?"
"Not a sign, sir," said the young man deferentially.
"Nothing? Think it's a springnapping?"
"Statistically it's not likely, considering all the abandon-
ment we're getting."

PERFECT PEOPLE
105
"The parents?" Creally probed.
"Low epsilons," injected Moorty.
"We interviewed them," said the male rookie. "Their
voiceprints came out negative."
"They're lying," said the young woman, who looked
slightly short for a Perfect.
"What makes you say that?"
"A hunch, that's all."
"I see," said Creally. He knew where hunches got peo-
ple.
"I think they've killed the boy-spring," she said.
"I suppose it's possible. They're both Nearly Perfects,"
added Moorty who, like most of the group, was a Perfect
herself.
"But there's no blood, no traces, nothing," said the male
rookie.
"We haven't had a murder in years," said Creally. He
paused and looked out at the squad. The faces seemed
uniformly guiltless and uninformed. "Okay, Moorty, why
don't you go back on the case and add Looy and Quual. I
want Jiiley and her partner when he gets back from sick
leave to pick up the abuse case in Kappa sector. I've got to
catch up on some holowork here today, but tomorrow I'll
pick up the trouble in Beta. Anything else?"
Silence.
"Okay. Let's go to it."
After the meeting, Creally hurried from the briefing
room down a level to his office. When he got there, a Zero
was tidying up his console, a duster in hand. When the
Zero turned around, Creally saw it was Pleebesey. Five
years ago, when Creally was still in Fraud, he had caught
him and his mate shoplifting. It was Pleebesey's second
offense and he had been so deeply zeroed, they had never
been able to reintegrate him.
"Just cleaning," said the man, giving Creally his
moronic smile.

106
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"That's fine," said Creally, distinctly uncomfortable in
the man's presence. "It's clean enough."
"I was going to vac-wash the floor too." Pleebesey
looked at him sincerely.
"You don't have to. It's clean enough."
"But those are my orders."
"Later. Come back later."
"If that is what you want," he said agreeably. "I will
come back later and do the floor."
"Yes. That's what I want."
As soon as the Zero was gone, Creally checked up on
Weems. When he didn't respond at his office, Creally
called the dispatcher's desk.
"Chief's out till the afternoon," confirmed Aarendeno.
"Meeting with big shots. Anything important?"
"Naw. Nothing special."
Leaving his console, Creally moved down the corridor
to the chief's office. Although Weems was a scrupulously
neat and often pedantic officer, he had one lazy habit—a
tendency to forget to clear his holocon after each use.
Creally hoped that this was one of those times. When he
slipped into the office, he found himself in luck. Weems's
holocon was still up. Projected out from it was next year's
budget. Rolling back the text to its initiation, he discovered
Weems's private code that he had used when logging on.
Employing it for entry, Creally manually punched up his
own file. Roaming through the menu of documents that
stretched back fifteen years—performance reports, repri-
mands, citations, medical history, and quarterly evalua-
tions—Creally found the listing for his pattern in the Sta-
tistical Recognition File and called it up. In an instant,
projected out before him, was a three-dimensional map of
the Infrastructure. Superimposed upon it were the color-
coded paths defining his life: thick lines of hot reds and
oranges going between Headquarters and home, shopping
trips in Xi sector, visits to Veena's office in peripheral Rho;
cooler, diffuse greens and blues were his recent forays in

PERFECT PEOPLE
107
the Beta through Theta central sectors that he had made
his basic territory. Fading from the hot reds to the milder
greens, he ultimately came to a streak of cold violet, two
thin lines stretching out to the suborbital transport station
at the top level of the Nu extreme. Though the ports
weren't able to recognize him at every lock, weren't able to
pick him up in heavy crowds or hurried traffic, just a sam-
pling had clearly been enough for the Mainframe to deline-
ate his life. Creally concentrated on the diagram, fighting
to commit to memory his heavily traveled routes. Looking
away, he tested himself, trying to recall the pattern. Glanc-
ing back, he checked the configuration, correcting himself
where he had gone wrong.
When Creally was convinced he had the routes firmly
embedded in his memory, he cleared his personal pattern.
Remaining in the Statistical Recognition File, he queried it
for anomalies. Methodically, the Mainframe began to sort
corridor by corridor through its secret P.M. files. In a few
minutes the answer was up and, seeing it, Creally smiled to
himself. The bins were empty. Wendy had moved unde-
tected from the suborb station to Headquarters.
Casting a nervous eye at the closed port, Creally cleared
the holocon. He had already stayed too long, but he
needed Weems's terminal for one more set of items. With
his fingers ranging familiarly over the sensory keys, he set
up a series of standard P.M. tracers. Aside from tagging
the flow of communication in and out of Weems's office
and personal holocons, he put a tracer on the holocon in
his own dwelling as well as one on the unit in Veena's
office. If they could watch his flow of calls, he could watch
theirs. When he finished burying the bins that would col-
lect the information in the Mainframe, he cleared the
chief's holocon, returned Weems's budget to precisely the
same position in which he had found it, and slipped out the
port undetected.

When Creally finally got to the storage room, he found
Wendy sitting in the hiding place, staring at the wall.
"I'm sorry I got here so late. I had to take care of a lot
of business first."
"I don't care," she said indifferently.
"Look, I brought you something to eat." He opened a
knotted napkin and, kneeling on the blankets, held it out
to her.
"What is it?" She eyed the food suspiciously.
"Lux cakes. Go on, try them."
She made no effort.
"They're really good." He broke off a piece and held it
to her lips. She took it in her mouth and chewed it apathet-
ically. "Come on. Eat some more."
"I don't like it," she sulked.
"Well, eat it anyhow. You've got to keep your strength
up."
"For what?"
"So you can run if you have to."
"To where?" she asked, and Creally let it pass.
"I was thinking that we could use today to try and brush
up on a few things. Have you tried the holoprojector?"
She shook her head.
"Well, I want you to use it. Look here, I brought you
some more discs. They're entertainment discs, but they'll
give you a better idea of how people walk and talk here.
You can study them."
21

PERFECT PEOPLE
109
"Why bother?" she said, looking again at the wall, and
Creally lost his patience.
"Why bother? Because you have to try to survive, that's
why. You can't just sit here and stare at the walls. You've
got to fight to come through this."
"I don't care," she mumbled. Hunching up and wrap-
ping her arms around her knees, she turned down her head
so that her hair hung over her face, hiding it.
"You just want to lie down and die, is that it?"
"Yes," she said angrily. "I don't want anything to do
with you people. These people," she corrected herself.
"They're killers."
"No one's asking you to like them. Just learn their ways.
So that you can survive and get out of here. And they're
not all killers. They're basically good people."
"Oh, yeah. Sure."
"Come on, let's try to work on speech and movements
today. If you do well, I'll take you out tomorrow." He
realized that she was a woman grown and he was treating
her like a spring, but if she didn't cooperate, they would
both be sunk. He sat down next to her. "Okay. Let's start
at the beginning. Say 'hello.' "
"Hello," she muttered, still looking down.
"No, no. The inflection is all wrong. Like this, he-llo."
"Hello," she answered mechanically.
"No. Now you sound like a Zero," he tried to joke. "He-
llo. He-llo."
"He-llo."
"Yes. That's right. Perfect. Now say this, 'My name is
Waandedora.' "
"My name is Waandedora."
"Waan-de-dora."
"My name is Waan-de-dora."
"Excellent. My name is Waandedora, but you can call
me Waandey," he said, and he caught from the side of her
face the glimmer of a smile.
"My name is Waandedora, but you can call me Waan-

110
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
dey," she said and, despite herself, she laughed when pro-
nouncing the name.
For most of that day, Creally alternated between his
office and the storage room, going from working on his
case files to giving impromptu lessons. While he was gone,
he had Wendy studying the holodiscs. When he was in the
storage room, he continued to work with her on her speech
—especially her vowels, which tended to be too broad and
flat.
"Oh, how good it is in upper Upsilon."
"Right. Excellent." She seemed to be a natural mimic
who easily picked up tone and inflection. But there were
other problems. When she spoke to him, the distance she
chose was all wrong. She always came too close. She was
too intense, too intimate.
"Hold your distance. Try to be cool. Talk slowly. Move
slowly."
He had her walk in circles around the storage room.
Though she moved with a certain animal grace, it was
definitely not a Creatorian walk.
"Try to take smaller steps. Like this."
She did.
"Also, remember you're a woman. They tend to move a
little more like this." He put an exaggerated lilt into his
step.
She copied him. It was almost right, but not quite. He
hunted through a holodisc until he had a woman walking.
"Here. Like this. See?"
She copied it almost exactly.
"Great!" he beamed.
By evening, he felt confident that she could move
through a corridor and probably not be noticed.
"Tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll go out," he promised. He
emptied the bucket he had left her for plooma, brought
back more food, and helped her settle in for the evening.
For a while, he sat watching her eat. She seemed to be

PERFECT PEOPLE
111
coming back to herself. Her features appeared less drawn
and apathetic. He felt he was winning at least one battle.
"Want some more?" he asked when she was finished.
"No. That was fine. I'm stuffed."
"Anything you need?"
"I'm all right." She really did seem to be okay.
"You had me worried there this morning," he confessed.
"I'm sorry."
She lay back on the blanket, cradling her head in her
arms, and stared up at the ceiling. The room fell silent, the
only sound was a pipe dripping, the rush of air through the
vents. Then she began to form low tones in her throat,
tremulous notes cascading one into another. Creally lis-
tened spellbound. She was doing just what the people of
the tribe had done with their voices that morning as they
marched up the gorge. The sound brought tears to his
eyes, and as her tones moved into the mellifluous words of
ancient Olderage, Creally concentrated to pick them up.
"The peaceful land that once was ours,
Blossomed and bloomed with a thousand flowers,
Its soil was dark and rich with life,
Free were we of fear and strife ..."
"Go on," he said when she caught him watching and
self-consciously stopped. "That was beautiful."
"Oh, it's just an old thing."
"I've never heard anything quite like it. What is it?"
"An old song. Something we sing for our dead."
"A song," he repeated.
"Don't you people sing?"
"Sing?" he echoed.
"You know . . . don't you have music?"
He shook his head.
"Boy," she said, "my father was right."
"Huh?"
"You people really are warped."

Creally found Veena pacing impatiently in front of the
hatchery in Theta.
"Late as usual," she said when he approached her. "I
was about ready to give up on you."
"Sorry. It's been a crazy day. I tried to call you at your
office, but you had already left," he lied.
"And I've been trying to get you all day. Where have
you been?"
"Working," he said, putting on a smile. "Well, shall we
go in?" And taking Veena by the arm, he went in with her
to visit their boy-spring. He had apparently been moved
from the early gests into the midgest section, but Veena
knew right where to find him.
"Look, Creally. There he is," she said, hurrying ahead
to the window. Creally followed her and approached the
large pane. In front of him in the hermetic room stood
three long, parallel lines of glassine tanks. In each of them
a young fetus hung suspended by filaments in a clear, bub-
bling embryonic medium, its body tapped by a multitude
of sensors, monitoring everything from heartbeat and brain
activity to hearing and metabolism. Crouching down,
Creally pressed his face against the glass and studied the
minuscule body of the boy-spring that floated in the nutri-
ent-rich solution in front of Veena. The infant was already
formed—tiny hands and feet, ears and nose. With his
scrunched-up face, he looked almost like an old man.
"Hey, he's kind of cute." Creally grinned.
"No, that's not him!" said Veena.
22

PERFECT PEOPLE
113
Creally looked up at her. Veena signaled for a nurse who
appeared behind the window. She motioned at a tank in
the second line and the masked nurse, nodding vigorously,
disconnected it from its support system and, switching it
with a tank in the front row, brought Creally his spring.
"That's him!" said Veena vehemently.
"Oh, right. I'd recognize him anywhere," Creally said,
and Veena, picking up the tone, looked at him suspiciously.
"Just a joke." He shrugged apologetically.
"Oh, my. Look at him," said Veena, forgetting her an-
noyance at the sight of her spring. Five months ago they
had been scratched and this was the result. Finally, after so
many years on the waiting lists, he would be hers. "He'-s
really a Perfect, isn't he? A perfect little Perfect."
Creally bent over to examine him. As far as he could
see, the fetus looked much the same as the other one ex-
cept for the fact that he had slight wisps of dark hair form-
ing on his skull. Creally carefully studied the rudimentary
features of the spring, looking for signs of himself, of
Veena. The ears of the fetus were small, set back tightly
against his skull—not like Creally's. His mouth was small,
lips well chiseled. Unlike Creally, too, he was a true Per-
fect, his testes gone, only a small, rudimentary appendage
left to attest to gender.
"What do you say?" asked Veena, all agog.
Creally didn't answer. He was still eyeing the unborn
infant, wondering, puzzling. He was suddenly thinking
back to the delta in the gorge. After what he had wit-
nessed, how could you really trust anyone? How could you
be sure that the child you were visiting was really your
own? If Weems could lie about the fate of the Hairy Ones,
then everything else could be a lie. Any one of these tanks
could hold his child. Or none of them. Were they making
genetic transformations, as the Creator promised, or whole
new human beings? If you weren't a geneticist, he realized,
you'd never really know. The step from a scratch—a cell
taken from the inside of a cheek—to the birth of a spring

114
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
was a quantum leap, a chain of anonymous hands provid-
ing the necessary little lifts along the route. How could you
trust them? Why trust them?
"Creally?" Veena crouched down beside him and
brought her face close to his against the pane. "What are
you thinking?"
"Oh . . . I'm thinking how lucky we are," he said
without a wince. "How lucky to be getting our little boy-
spring." And when he turned to look at Veena, he saw to
his surprise a hint of tears glazing her eyes.
Though, rush hour was over, the trip from the hatchery
in peripheral Theta to Upsilon took almost twenty min-
utes. Instead of being dispatched on a quick radial route
through the core of Creatoria, Creally's capsule was
shunted along a wide peripheral arc.
"It's this damn pre-Creation Day traffic," he muttered.
"This is ridiculous," Veena chimed in. "You'd think that
after all these years they'd finally get it straightened out. I
mean, they've got the resources to put in more tubes. You
know, I have a mind to send a holex to the transport peo-
ple. Or to one of those big-shot ministers."
"Save your breath," said Creally. "They don't give a
ploom."
"Well, if no one complains, then nothing's ever going to
change. That's for sure."
"So send a holex."
"I will," she said determinedly, and Creally was sure
that by the time they got home the entire notion would be
forgotten.
For the remainder of the trip they traveled in silence.
Staring out at the passing lights of the tubes, Creally found
himself plagued by the same worrisome questions. The
massacre: How in C.'s name did they get the weapons?
Where did they come from and where were they stored?
Who were those uniformed killers who had come with
Sneeling? And Wendy: What in the world was he going to

PERFECT PEOPLE
115
do with her? When it came right down to it, he still had no
good ideas. All he was doing, he realized, was buying time.
He wished there was somebody around he could talk to,
confide in, seek out for advice. Now that he considered it,
he realized he didn't have a single friend he could trust,
not a co-worker or neighbor he could dare turn to. There
were Ministrators whose job it was to empathize and pro-
vide spiritual support, psychiatrists who were paid to lis-
ten, social workers and psychologists trained to give advice
—a whole hierarchy eager to lend assistance—but he knew
what talking to even one of them would mean—Creally the
zero.
". . . And I was trying to figure out when we'd do it, so
at least I could plan—Creally, are you listening?"
"Huh?"
"I was talking about moving."
"Oh, yeah."
"I thought, if we get an extra room we could make it
into a nursery. When do you think it'll come through? The
promotion? The move?"
"Oh, I don't know," Creally shrugged. Ahead in the
tube, he could see the station approaching. "These things
can take months. It's got to go all the way to the Ultimate
Board for approval. If I were you, I wouldn't count on the
move until it actually happens."
The capsule stopped and Creally got out. Veena hurried
to keep up with him as he strode through the station.
"What did you mean by that?" she asked as they passed
a scruffy Tox couple riffling through a garbage bin for
leftovers. " 'Until it actually happens'?"
"Nothing really." When he came abreast of a public
holocon, he slowed his pace and turned to look at her.
"Space is tight these days. You know that as well as I do."
"Hmmmpf," she snorted.
"And please, do me a favor. Stop worrying and stop
trying to read something ominous into everything I say.
I'm getting a little sick of it."

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ROBERT LIEBERMAN
She looked at him, startled.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. I
think I'm still tired from the trip."
"Oh, am I hungry," said Veena, going directly to the
kitchen console as soon as they got home. "Hey, where are
all the lux cakes I bought?" she asked, rummaging through
the cupboards.
"I ate them."
"Ate them? All of them?"
"Looks that way, doesn't it?"
"For breakfast?"
Creally nodded.
"How could you even stomach that much? There was
enough here for at least two more dinners."
"I was starved. I just got carried away."
Veena went back to her hunting. "In fact, there's noth-
ing to eat at all," she said, standing on tiptoe and peering
into the back of the high cupboard. "The place is empty.
What's going on?"
"Hey, I'll go down to the convenience shop and get
some dinner."
"Wait, here's some soup I forgot I had. I'll put it on."
"I'll get some other stuff too. How about a nice des-
sert?"
"Creally—"
"I don't mind going, really," said Creally, already half-
way out the port. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes. Just
sit tight."
Leaving the dwelling, Creally went down the nearest
radial, but instead of continuing on to the shop on the next
block, he took a sharp left to the ascendors and rode back
down to the tube station. Retracing his steps, he slipped
into the public holocon. As the glass booth closed around
him the unit came up on line.
before placing a call please give your i.d.
Creally looked around. Except for the two Toxes, squab-

PERFECT PEOPLE
117
bling over some plank they had found, the station seemed
empty.
before placing a call please give your i.d.
"This is P.M. business," he said.
identify with p.m. status. name. rank. number.
"Leemling. Rank-two. 126303874."
request?
"I want to unlock the general index and create a top-
secret file."
password?
"Hickorydickorydock."
form?
"Verbal and visual."
Creally watched as three capsules pulled into the station
in rapid succession. The people got out and began walking
across the platform toward him.
access?
"My ears and eyes only. No exceptions. No overrides."
proceed
The clump of people neared him. He waited until they
passed.
proceed
"My name is Creally Leemling," he said in a low voice,
staring straight into the receptor. "I'm a second-rank P.M.
with fifteen years on the Force. I live in Upsilon sector,
level five, corridor two thirty-five. I'm thirty-nine years
old. I have a mate named Veena."
The empty capsules were shunted off into a waiting
queue and another two came in, each carrying a couple.
Creally spoke quickly.
"I was schooled in the Creatoria Technicum and after a
year transferred to the P.M. Academy," he said, sketching
out his adult career. He paused again when the new people
passed, then picked up his narrative. "Eight days ago I
began a case out of my jurisdiction. It involved what
looked like sabotage at a solar farm," he said, and began to
detail the events leading up to the discovery of the Hairy

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ROBERT LIEBERMAN
Ones. Speaking in cold, detached terms, he described the
squadron he had seen taking off from the outlying suborb
station, the strange gear they mounted on their ships, the
massacre he had subsequently witnessed. "As far as I
know, there is only one survivor, a young woman named
Wendy. She is, I guess, somewhere around eighteen or
nineteen years old. About one hundred seventy centimeters
tall, fifty-six kilos. Hair auburn with reddish tint. Noncer-
tified color. Eyes brown, somewhere between B-seven and
B-eight. Face shape sort of a type-six. She is a quiet, gentle
girl-spring who speaks a dialect of what I think is Older-
age. At this moment, I have no immediate plans for her. I
feel I'm being carefully monitored and worry about the
possibility of being caught and zeroed out. I'm worried not
just for my sake, but for Wendy's. Without my help, I
don't think she has a chance. Since I'm the one who
brought her here, I have to help her start some sort of new
life. Either I have to get her out of Creatoria—which is not
going to be easy—or . . . Well, I'm hoping that maybe
she can adapt enough to go on living here. Once she learns
the ways, she might be able to survive here undetected."
Another capsule pulled into the end of the station and
out stepped a man Creally recognized as a P.M. who lived
up on the third level.
"Whenever I have a chance, I'll try to update this jour-
nal," Creally said quickly. "Okay. That's it. Close file."
file closed
And with that Creally transferred his secret entry deep
into the Mainframe's memory, burying it in a section allo-
cated solely to holocon entertainment.
He cleared the unit, stepped out into the station, and
walked briskly back to the ascendors before the P.M. could
spot him.

The morning briefing for the Domestic Squad went fast.
The spring from Iota, missing for more than a week, had
miraculously been found in a squalid, first-level dwelling.
The infant had been taken from his home by a female Tox
who had lost her own boy-spring shortly before being ze-
roed out. Though dirty and half-dressed, the infant was
still remarkably healthy, and the male rookie who had dis-
covered his whereabouts was given a loud round of ap-
plause.
After the meeting, Creally went to his office. Logging
himself in on a case in Beta, he plugged a dispatch button
into his ear and, grabbing his kit, went up to the storage
room. When he got there, he was pleasantly surprised to
find Wendy studying the hololessons.
"Today we're going out," he said brightly.
"You mean back up?"
"No, no," he smiled. "Out into Creatoria."
"Oh . . ."
Creally knelt down and unpacked his kit. "Here's some
breakfast," he said, handing her a pile of buns and some
bottles of flavored drink. While she desultorily nibbled at
the food, Creally worked on her hair, touching it up with a
little color and fluffing it. "You're going to have to learn
how to do this yourself," he said. "I brought you a mirror
and some makeup. Here. I—what's the matter?" he asked,
seeing the food still sitting almost untouched in her lap.
"Isn't it good?"
"It's alright," she said with a shrug.
23

120
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Don't you like it?"
"This plank gets kind of boring," she said as he held the
mirror up for her and she began working the bronzing
around her face.
"Well, what would you like?" Creally popped one of the
buns in his mouth and chewed. "How about some plank
soup? Or muffins? They make these really good muffins,"
.he said with a full mouth. "They're big like this. And
they're sweet. How would you like that?"
"Yeah, I suppose."
"Well, what would you like? Tell me, I'll try to get it."
"How about some meat?" she said, picking up the
eyeshadow and adeptly smearing it over her eyelids.
Creally stopped chewing. "Meat? You mean flesh?"
"I wouldn't put it like that," she smiled. "But yes, I
could go for some roasted bird or maybe a piece of pork."
Creally tried to hide his shock. "Well, we'll go shopping
today and see what we can find. Ready?"
"Ready," she said, getting to her feet.
Creally checked her over. She looked good. Very good.
Outside, the ceiling was low, the day turning gray and
cool. Creally kept Wendy pressed close to him as they
moved through the heavy crowds of Central Lambda. Ner-
vously, he watched her face. She was doing well. There
was a faint smile on her lips and her eyes displayed a cool-
ness and insouciance worthy of any Creatorian. When they
moved past a holocon, she gave the commercial image no
more than a perfunctory glance. Creally kept checking
around them, behind them, searching the sea of passing
faces. No one was paying any attention to them. At an
airlock, Wendy slipped automatically behind him and then
fell into step as he cleared it. At the next airlock, he sig-
naled her with his eyes and she fell into step with a Perfect
in front of them. As the man passed through the lock, she
moved directly behind him without his noticing it.
Creally led Wendy to a nearby bank of ascendors and,

PERFECT PEOPLE
121
without a word, they rode down to the eighth level. Once
they were in the tube station, he pulled her aside behind a
post and, using eyeliner, began sketching a quick diagram
on a napkin.
"This is the basic layout of Creatoria. There are twenty-
four sectors, Alpha through Omega." He drew in the ra-
dial boundaries. "Right now you're here, in Lambda. Cen-
tral Lambda," he said, locating their position on the
sketch. "Got it?"
She nodded and it was then that he suddenly noticed she
was carrying the doll clutched in her hands.
"Holy C.!" He grabbed it from her. Hiding it under his
arm, he looked around anxiously. No one could see. "You
can't carry this thing open like that," he whispered.
"Somebody spots an artifact like this and you're dead."
"I just wanted to keep it with me," she whispered back.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to be sorry. Here, stick it in your kit."
He pushed it deep into one of the side pockets. Though it
left a bulge, its form was indiscernible. "Come on. Let's
go," he said, tucking the sketch into his own kit.
They queued up for a capsule, and when they were trav-
eling alone in one he took the sketch out again.
"Okay, twenty-four sectors. Alpha through Omega.
Each of them pie-shaped—know what I mean?"
"Yup."
"Each of them has eight levels."
"Like the ten levels of hell."
"No. Not ten. Eight."
"That was just a joke," she said dryly as their capsule
came to a Xi express radial. They waited as a long hookup
passed in front.
"I'm too jumpy to joke. Okay, you got it? Eight levels."
"Eight."
"The eighth is strictly transportation. The first seven are
generally dwellings with the exception of the government
areas."

122
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Dwellings," she echoed.
"Basically, the deeper level, the better the dwelling."
Wendy looked puzzled. "It sounds like they've got
things backward."
"Not really. The deeper the dwelling, the less ascendor
time to the tube transport. I suppose it's also a throwback
to the early radioactive days. You know, the deeper the
level, the safer it was."
She still didn't seem to understand.
"You should see some of the swanky dwellings they have
down on the sixth and seventh level."
"Sounds like fun," she muttered. "By the way, where
are we going?"
"Shopping," he said as their capsule lurched forward
and slipped into a gap in the train. "We're heading to a big
mall in Xi." He showed her on the sketch.
"Shopping? Mall?"
The mall in Xi seemed more crowded than on any other
pre-Creation Day interval Creally could ever remember.
Hordes of people were moving up and down the clogged
aisles, their arms laden with packages. It seemed that peo-
ple these days had more income to spend than they knew
what to do with. Overhead the holocons were noisily vying
with each other, continuously projecting out inducements
to buy new clothes, try new rations, sample the latest in
accoutrements, scents, and disinfectants.
24

PERFECT PEOPLE
123
this week xi mall announces a special in aisle
seven. every perfect's dream. a skin made of
smooth, tapered, and hugging flesh-colored gji-
iling. created from the finest of spun laacrol,
it's so light you won't know it's there.
in our dwelling department we're offering,
today only, the true essence of ancestral pine.
produced from the finest of allergen-free es-
ters, this . . .
By the time they reached the culinary section, Wendy
looked a little overwhelmed. Before her stood rack upon
rack of beautifully packaged plank. There seemed to be at
least a hundred varieties of soup alone.
"My God," she whispered, "look at all this! This is just
soup?"
"It's all the same," said Creally. "They just color and
package it differently. Sometimes they add different
flavors. Most of the time people don't even know the differ-
ence," he said, gathering up a few capsules of a liquid
plank that he figured Wendy would find most palatable. He
took the capsules to the register, held them in front of the
sensor and announced, "Leemling, Creally, Upsilon sector,
level five."
sale registered.
"Here, try this." He popped the lid off one of the cap-
sules.
Wendy took a slurp of the cold, red plank.
"Well?"
"You really want to know?"
He nodded.
"It tastes like shit," she grinned with a red mustache.
"Shit?"
"You know . . ."
"Oh, plooma!" he said with a laugh, then covered his
mouth when a passing woman glared at him in disap-
proval.
Creally took Wendy over to the women's wear. It was

124
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
crowded with women pawing through the piles of pack-
aged skins on the tables.
"What would you like?"
She shrugged.
"Here, I think this area's your size. Pick out a couple
that you like."
Wendy motioned to a skin that was a deep, fleshy
bronze, another that was light, bordering on her own skin
color. While Creally checked out the purchase, Wendy
stood staring at a Nearly Perfect who was absorbed in
shuffling through the heaps of skins, two little springs
standing obediently at her sides.
"The kids," Wendy whispered when he came back.
"Huh?"
She motioned with her eyes. "They don't say anything.
They don't cry, don't make a peep. What's with them?"
"They're Perfects. They're not supposed to."
"Oh," she said thoughtfully, jutting out her lower lip.
"Come on. Let's get you some boots."
"You know," Wendy said as they headed over to the
footwear department, "anybody could probably walk into
this joint and take out whatever they wanted."
"Sure. But they don't."
"But what if they wanted something and they did?"
"It's just not done."
"But what if they needed something and it was here?
Why couldn't they just take it?"
"They could, but it rarely happens."
"Why?"
Creally took a deep, exasperated breath and slowly ex-
haled. "Why? Because people are honest."
"And if they're not?"
"In the end we catch them."
"And what do you do to them?"
"Change them," he answered vaguely, thinking that he
would have to manipulate his plank rations before Veena
discovered that he was using their allotment for Wendy.

PERFECT PEOPLE
125
Cover that and all the expenditures for women's skins and
footwear. Create nonexistent income. It was voucher
fraud, shoplifting on a high level—the same sort of crime
for which he had had people zeroed out. "Enough ques-
tions," he said. "Let's go."
Leaving the Xi commercial district, Creally took Wendy
over to Central Beta sector where his case was located. As
they traveled in the tube transport and then moved
through the labyrinth of corridors and airlocks, Creally
kept up a running lecture, trying to teach Wendy in a short
span all the little ways to outsmart the system—things that
he himself had garnered from crooks over the years. And
she was a good student, quick and lithe, her movements
sure and certain. The sensors were almost no match for
her. When no one was looking she could vault a turnstile
in a tube station without creating the slightest stir, slip in
through a closing port at the very last instant. Watching
her, Creally began to feel optimistic. She had a chance. If
he could create an identity for her, somehow find her a
dwelling, a legal dwelling, she could make it. What aston-
ished him most, however, was how fast she was recovering
from the trauma of the massacre. It seemed almost too
fast.
When they got to the second level of Beta, Creally
pressed the dispatch button in his ear and called into the
dispatcher, "Leemling, going eight-eleven in two-Beta."
Wendy looked at him mystified. "Who are you talking
to?"
"Headquarters," he explained, pointing to his ear. He
took out the button and held it to her ear.
She listened. "Oh, it's a radio," she said. "You mean
you've been listening to this garbage all the time?"
"I can tune it out. Just a matter of concentration," he
said as they walked down the 400 corridor near the core.
The word "radio" got him thinking.
"I was wondering," he said.
"Yes?"

126
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Are there others?"
"Huh?"
"Other tribes. Other people like your family out there?"
"No. None," she answered. Her denial was so flat that
Creally suspected she was lying.
"Then what was the radio equipment for?"
"What radio equipment?"
"The equipment you had in one of the dwellings?"
"I don't know what they used it for," she said, shrug-
ging off the question, and Creally let it go.
They continued down the corridor. When they came to
the appropriate dwelling, the port stood half open. Creally
knocked. There was no response. He knocked again, then
stuck his head in and called out.
"Come on," he motioned to Wendy. "They're out."
She followed him in. Though it was a small dwelling, it
had two rooms. Deeply central, the walls were highly
tapered, coming together so rapidly that the dwelling was
long and almost tunnellike. In the living room, the holocon
was silently running, a religious program up on image. As
Creally checked out the dwelling, Wendy stood fixedly
watching the program, staring at the figure of an old man
who stood among mountains of smoking rubble, the wind
ruffling his long white mane of hair. His face was deeply
creased, and his eyes, burning with intensity, seemed to
leap out at her.
Creally moved rapidly through the dwelling. The place
was a mess. There was old, dried plank spilled over the
console. The furnishings were threadbare. The sanitizing
compartment, lacking detergent or disinfectant, reeked of
sewer.
"Who's that?" asked Wendy.
"Huh? Who?"
"The old guy."
By the time Creally turned to look, the image had
changed and there now appeared the still image of another

PERFECT PEOPLE
127
white-maned man. He looked a little different. A little
heavier, younger, perhaps, more benign.
"That's the Creator."
"And the guy before?"
Creally moved through the dwelling. "The one before
was the Creator of Creators," he called out. "He was the
one who—" He stopped short.
"Creally?"
Silence.
"Creally?" She left the holocon and moved toward the
back room.
Creally was standing in the nursery. "You'd better not
come in here," he said, warning her off with a hand.
She came in anyhow. "Oh, God!" she said, seeing the
little Perfect lying in his soiled crib. His face was bloodied.
His eyes were swollen and blackened, and when Creally
tried to move him, he began to moan.
"What happened?"
"Looks like he's badly bruised. I think maybe his arm is
broken." Creally gently lifted the spring out of the filth
and carried him into the living room, gingerly lowering
him onto the worn sofa. The boy-spring whimpered qui-
etly. Creally removed his skin. His body was covered with
welts and bruises. He began to cry silently, and when
Creally reached out to stroke his head the spring grabbed
Creally's large finger and clung to it.
"Who did this to him?" Wendy asked, her hands pressed
to her mouth.
"The parents."
"The parents?"
"We've got a bit of a problem. Look, you'd better stay
outside. Go down to that end of the corridor and wait for
me," he motioned. He pushed the dispatch button. "Give
me an emergency soma. Two-Beta four oh one. Year-and-
a-half-old male spring. Internal injuries." Creally turned to
Wendy who remained transfixed, staring down at the boy-
spring clinging to Creally's finger. "Go on," he said while

128
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
the transceiver buzzed in his ear. "They'll be here in a
second."
Wendy made a dash out of the dwelling and, by the time
she was in the corridor, an ambulance followed by an
emergency P.M. vehicle was already swishing down the far
end of the hall, lights flashing, high-pitched siren anxiously
beeping.
Long after they had left, Wendy was still talking about the
injured boy-spring.
"I just don't understand it," she said as they circled
Creatoria peripherally in a capsule headed for Creally's
dwelling in Upsilon. "I mean, nobody in my family would
ever hurt a baby like that." She spoke as if they were all
still alive. "What kind of people are these living here?"
"You can't generalize," he said defensively.
"How could anyone even lift a hand against a little—"
"Look, this is just an aberration. Most people here are
good."
"Yeah," she said, playing nervously with the package in
her lap. "So good that if they catch me they'll kill me."
"But that's not your average person."
"Come on, are you trying to tell me that this is a won-
derful and peace-loving society?"
"Not wonderful. But peace-loving? Yes. Most people
here wouldn't hurt another soul."
"Oh, come on!"
25

PERFECT PEOPLE
129
"Listen, your people were not exactly innocent. They
had weapons. Stockpiles of them. And they killed, I saw it
with my own eyes."
"We were being attacked."
"And those weapons, they were never used before?
Huh?"
"We may have fought," she said finally, "but we don't
go around killing people for the fun of it or just because we
don't like the way they look. And we aren't wasters. We
don't destroy the Earth."
"What in C.'s name are you talking about?"
"Oh, forget it!" she snapped and turned morosely to
stare out at the passing sections of tube.
"You're sulking again," he said, irritated by her moods.
"I can do whatever I want. You don't own me." She
pouted.
"No, I don't, thank C."
"Just a bunch of cruel people," she muttered. "All they
want to do is go shopping and buy things. That's the only
thing they care about."
Creally gave a forced laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"That package in your lap."
She looked down as if just discovering it. "I didn't want
this junk. Here, you bought it, you take it." She shoved the
package at him. "I don't want anything from you, any of
you."
"I'm sorry," he apologized later as they walked down a
wide Upsilon corridor. In the overhead bubble mirror at
the next intersection, Creally caught a glimpse of three
Toxes standing in a huddle. A man was surreptitiously
slipping them intoxicants and, as he approached, the group
quickly scattered. "I didn't mean to jump on you like
that."
"I understand," she said, staring down at the floor.
"No, you don't. Not everything. I don't expect you to.

130
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
It's more complex than you think. Anyhow, our biggest
problem is keeping you safe. That's enough pressure as it
is."
"I understand."
"And stop saying 'I understand.' You don't. And neither
do I."
"And I understand that too." She turned and smiled
disarmingly at him. Creally's face finally broke into a grin.
"I'm sorry about what I said about everybody here. I
didn't really mean it. They're really all very lovely people."
Creally laughed and gave her an impulsive hug. "Come
on," he said, leading her around the corner and into his
dwelling.
"So," she said, stepping in and looking around as
Creally sealed the port behind them, "this is how you
live."
"For the time being. We're supposed to move," he said,
and wondered if she had an inkling of how responsible he
had been for the massacre of her people. She had never
even asked what he had been doing there at the delta.
Wendy wandered around the dwelling, curiously peek-
ing into the cupboards, examining the dishes and cups,
playing with the controls on the kitchen console. "What's
this thing?" she asked, sticking her head into the vleemer
helmet.
"A vleemer."
"What does it do?"
"Exercises your muscles."
"Can I try it?"
"Absolutely not. Not unless you want to have your
brains picked."
"And what's this thing?" she asked, looking over the
flanker.
"Nothing."
"Looks like a pretty complicated nothing." She flipped
the switch on and off. "Is this where you and your girl-
friend sleep?" She turned to the double-wide recliner.

PERFECT PEOPLE
131
"My mate? Yeah."
Wendy pushed a button on the wall and a panel slid
back to reveal Veena's extensive wardrobe. "Wow, she's
certainly got a lot of stuff."
"Veena likes skins." Creally stood watching her.
"And boots. How many pairs does she have?"
"More than she can ever use. Take a couple of pairs. She
won't miss them."
"I don't need anything. I'm just looking. Just curious,
that's all."
"Go on." He took out a pair of high, bronze-colored
boots. "These'll match the skin you bought. Try them on."
Wendy took off her boots and slipped on Veena's. "Ohh,
they are nice." She admired them on her feet as she took a
few steps back and forth. "And they feel so good."
"Keep them. It's a present from Veena. She's a very
generous person," he laughed.
Wendy walked over to the recliner and, in a leap,
plumped down into its supple softness. "Wow, what lux-
ury!"
"Try this," he said and, turning on the controls, he put
on the penetrating heat and let the recliner gently undu-
late.
"Ugh, I think I'm getting sick," she laughed. "What
does she do?"
"Veena?"
Wendy nodded.
"She works."
"Doing what?"
"She's a pharmacist. You know, medicines and stuff. If
you're feeling low, she can bring you up."
"Sounds nice."
"Yeah, I suppose. She's an expert in endorphins, things
that kill pain."
"One of my uncles knows a lot about medicines. He
takes care of the whole family."
Creally didn't say anything, just nodded understanc

132
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Veena," she said thoughtfully. "That's her name,
huh?"
Creally nodded.
"She pretty?"
"Yes. I would say so."
"Do you love her?"
Creally looked at her quizzically.
"You don't know what it means?" Wendy sat up.
"Do you mean, do I care for her?"
"No. Well, yes, but more than that."
Creally seemed troubled. "I like Veena. I care for her."
Wendy got up and moved over to the dressing table
where Veena kept her cosmetics. "Yeah, but do you have
feelings for her?"
"What kind of feelings?"
"You know, those warm, special feelings." Wendy
hugged herself. "The kind you have when you're with
someone you really like and when they're gone you miss
them terribly. Terribly . . ." she said, and suddenly her
eyes clouded with tears. "Miss them terribly," she re-
peated, and began to cry.
Her sudden emotion took Creally by surprise. He didn't
know what to do. Awkwardly, he went close and put his
hand on her head. "Please," he said, stroking her, "don't
cry." He pulled her into his arms, but she only wept more.
"Come on, you've got to be strong and brave. For their
sake." He comforted her and, as she buried her face
against his chest and wept, her body trembling against his,
Creally again felt that overwhelming need to shield and
protect her. But more than that, her pain was suddenly his,
her sorrow his sorrow.

"Someone's stealing," said Veena over dinner.
"What?" Creally looked up from his plank.
"There's plank missing. And I can't find my bronzing.
In fact, half my makeup's gone."
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure." .
"It's probably one of those poor Zeroes who cleans."
"Poor, my foot. There's a reason why they're Zeroes.
And they're not supposed to steal. And from a P.M.'s
dwelling of all things. What nerve!" Veena left her meal in
a huff and plumped down in the sofa in front of the
holocon. "I'm going to report this. Online," she ordered
the unit.
REQUEST?
"Wait," said Creally. "Let me take care of it. If you call
it in, the report'll just get filed and lost in the bureaucracy.
I'll talk directly to the people in Fraud tomorrow."
REQUEST?
"Promise?"
"I promise. Just relax and let me take care of it. I'll have
it investigated."
REQUEST?
REQUEST?
"Oh, shut up!" she snapped at the holocon. "No. Wait.
Give me entertainment," she ordered petulantly. Creally
went back to eating.
FORM?
"Non-preprogrammed," she said, and whistled for her
26

134
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
woolly, which scampered out of its storage box. It hopped
up into her lap when she signaled it with her finger.
type?
She thought for a moment. "A romance."
characters?
"Oh, I don't know. How about a pair of Nearly Perfects.
You figure out the rest."
assembling
Creally watched Veena through the corner of his eye as
she stroked her woolly.
"And another thing," she said. "I'm missing a pair of
boots."
Every day represented a minor victory over the system.
Every day that passed, another step toward safety. Creally
felt his optimism growing. It was all working. Actually
working. They were getting away with it. And Wendy
seemed to be adapting, better than he could possibly have
hoped for. Not only was she picking up all the nuances of
Creatorian life, but her curiosity seemed to know no
bounds, her questions coming in endless barrages: Why
was P.M. Headquarters in Lambda? Why did the as-
cendors in Central Tau only go up six levels? Was the
shopping mall in Delta the same as in Xi? Where was the
suborb station they had come in on?
"Oh, the questions!" said Creally, slapping his head dra-
matically, though her interest delighted him. He took it as
27

PERFECT PEOPLE
135
a sign of acceptance. The sallowness of her complexion
below the bronzing, the growing hollowness of her fea-
tures, the persistent cough she developed, none of it quite
registered.
The questions continued unabated. She wanted to know
everything, it seemed, but mostly her inquiries centered
around the layout of Creatoria. That, and the Creators.
"What about the Creator, where does he live?"
"Gee, I—I don't know," he answered. At the time, they
were walking on the seventh level of Iota sector. Creally
was investigating a big shot who had been accused of
spring neglect. He suspected it was a bogus complaint
made by someone who had been passed over for a promo-
tion. Nevertheless, Creally was glad for the excuse of
working the seventh. Down there, away from the crowds
of the upper levels, it was quiet, nearly deserted, the broad
corridors soft and absorbent so that one never heard the
irritating echo of footsteps, only muted footfalls. There he
could take Wendy along and not have to worry about being
overheard.
"You mean, you never wondered where He lives?"
"I never needed to contact Him," Creally joked.
"Seriously!"
"Seriously?" Creally scratched his head. "No, I never
really wondered. Obviously it's not public knowledge. Oth-
erwise, every time some fool had a problem he'd go run-
ning to Him. I suppose He lives down here somewhere on
the seventh. . . . Hey, take a peek into one of these digs,"
he motioned as they passed an open port.
Wendy, who could now almost flawlessly mimic the
walk of an elegant Perfect, strode over to the port and
peered in. Just inside the entrance was a large archway and
beyond that she could see a living room that was spacious
and high-ceilinged, almost cavernous. The room was illu-
minated with a warm radiance and comfortably appointed^
with plush sofas and deep, soft rugs on the floor. T

136
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
were colorful tapestries hanging on the walls and into one
of them, she noticed, was woven the visage of the Creator.
"Have you ever seen Him? The Creator," she asked as
she joined Creally again.
"Not in person. I've seen him live on the holocon."
"Has anybody seen Him, in real life?"
"Sure. Once a year, on Creation Day, he gives a public
audience over in the stadium in Alpha."
"And what does he do?"
"Oh, nothing much. Just gives a speech."
"About what?"
"The usual stuff about His vision for the future, about
working hard, honesty, morality, the family—the sort of
thing you might expect. If you really want to, we can go
listen to him. It's in a couple of days. It's a bit of a mob
scene, though. . . . Here, turn left."
"You know, I was wondering ..."
"Uh-oh, here comes another question," Creally grinned.
"How do they get a new Creator when the old one
dies?"
"He's chosen."
"By whom?"
"The Ultimate Board. Now you're going to ask me who
the Ultimate Board is, right?"
"Nope," she said, following him around a corner.
"No?" he looked surprised.
"Not yet. I'll ask you that later," Wendy smiled. She
slipped unnoticed behind Creally at an airlock, then fell
into step with him. "First I want to know where the Cre-
ator comes from."
"He's taken from the people."
"So anybody can be the Creator?"
"Well, yes."
"Then why is it always a man?"
"I don't know. It just happens that way. What they do is
watch the fetuses, select a particularly promising one, and

PERFECT PEOPLE
137
grow him in a special medium. So that he grows up spe-
cial."
"Or she."
"Or she. Yes. Grows up to be very wise and intelligent
and with a long lifespan."
She didn't seem quite satisfied with his explanation.
Later, when they were back in the storage room, sitting on
her blanket, he told her about the history of the Creator
and Creatoria, going all the way back to the days of the
cataclysmic war.
"It was a war that started small, then spread like a
plague, engulfing all of the peoples of the world. No one,
they said, wanted war, but the violence was endemic and it
came. It came in a hail of explosions, nuclear bombs rain-
ing down from the skies in tens of thousands. The cities
that covered the Earth were immediately evaporated or
reduced to burning rubble. The smoke and ash filling the
skies blocked out the sun, and the planet was plunged into
an endless winter that smothered the seasons," Creally ex-
plained, his voice taking on a strange, singsong quality.
"The plants wilted. The animals perished. And with them,
it seemed, went all chance of human survival."
As Creally continued to spin out the tale of the Great
War, just as he had learned it in springhood, he noticed the
way Wendy was watching him, as if it were all new to her.
Hadn't her people ever told her about the war? Puzzled, he
nevertheless continued.
"For ten long years the people, burnt and deformed and
dying of sickness, scavenged the bleak land, fighting
among themselves over the few scraps of food they might
find. Their legacy was to murder and be murdered, and
those who had the misfortune of giving bodily birth were
forced to kill their own springs when they saw how hid-
eous they looked. The human race as it once was, was
gone, and what remained was destined for extinction. Were
not for the vision of our first Creator, Creator of all

138
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
Creators, the Universe would forever have lost that unique
species called humankind."
Wendy was shivering, he noticed, and Creally pulled a
blanket around her shoulders to ward off the damp chill of
the storage room.
"You're probably tired," he said. "I'll let you go to
sleep."
"No, no. Go on," she insisted. "I want to hear the rest
of it."
"Well," Creally continued, "our first Creator was a sci-
entist, a man of unusual vision—some say divinely inspired
by the heavens above—who gathered up the few remaining
survivors. By a miracle he managed to bring them here, to
what would become Creatoria. It was here they began
building the Infrastructure. They started in what is now
Alpha. Digging and digging. There were hard times. Many
of the people died. Most of them were sick, poisoned. They
gave their lives to build the first three levels of Alpha. The
race would surely have perished were it not for the first
Creator. He was the one who took the first scratches, made
the first fetuses."
"Made?"
"The whole process of bodily reproduction had failed.
And even if it hadn't, most of the women were too ill to
carry their offspring."
Silence.
"And you believe all that?" she finally asked.
"About the fetuses?"
"No. No."
"About—"
"Oh, forget it," she said, pulling away. Curling up into
her blanket, she turned to the wall and seemed to go to
sleep. Creally sat for a moment and watched her, then
quietly got up and left.

It was easy to sleep. Easy to awaken in the morning, feel-
ing refreshed and imbued with spirit. With Wendy to care
about, Creally's existence took on a new meaning. Despite
the danger, or because of it—he wasn't sure which—
Creally felt himself infused with vitality and optimism.
There was something about Wendy, something intangible,
something that made her strong yet vulnerable, an open-
heartedness and generosity of spirit that kept Creally rush-
ing through his morning work so that he could be with
her. In his mind there was no future, no past, only the
present. He would take each day as it came, enjoy it, sa-
vour it.
The excitement engendered in him by Wendy's very ex-
istence was almost too much to contain. Since there was no
one he dared share it with, he confided it to his secret
journal. Each morning on his way to work, he stopped at a
public holocon to update his diary. Usually his entries
were limited to talk of Wendy, of what she said and
thought and felt. Sometimes, however, he added notes and
queries of his own.
"The Creator," he appended to his journal one morning
after bringing it up from its deep sanctuary. "Why haven't
I—or anyone—ever talked to Him personally? Why does
He give an audience only once a year? Where does He live?
If He is chosen by the Ultimate Board, then who chooses
the members of the Board? Why is He always a male? Am
I the only one in Creatoria who has ever asked these ques-
tions? And why, why haven't I ever asked them before?"
28

140
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
Easy to sleep. Easy to awaken. He was stealing, cheating
the system, breaking every conceivable law and ordinance,
yet Creally felt utterly remorseless, utterly guiltless. Later
that morning, when he snuck into Weems's office to bor-
row the chief's holocon and private number, he did it
without hesitation or qualms. His fingers flying expertly
over the keyboard, Creally brought up the Statistical Rec-
ognition File. To his delight, it revealed no anomalies de-
tected on any of the routes he and Wendy had used. His
own pattern showed no deviations, no quirks. His epsilon
was low, remarkably low. Maybe they weren't watching
him? Maybe the level of danger was much lower than he
had perceived? Clearing Weems's holocon, Creally quickly
brought up the communication tags he had set up earlier
in the week. The bins were brimming. Scanning the listing
gleaned from his dwelling holocon, he found nothing unto-
ward. There were Veena's calls to the hairdresser, the usual
long series of gab sessions with Eleey, his own contacts—
an evening call to Spring Services to follow up on a cus-
tody case, an early-morning contact the previous day with
Aarendeno to inform him that he would be late.
Creally jumped from his tags to Weems's. The chief's
list seemed endless and as Creally waded through it, he
kept a nervous eye peeled on the port, a finger poised on
the clear button. On the listing were countless calls to the
Finance Ministry. Some overseas contacts. One, in fact, to
the solar farm. And each day there was a call to the Health
Ministry. Health? And then another, even stranger, daily
call to a shop that sold woollys. What was Weems, who
didn't care for pets, doing calling about woollys? Blocking
out the visual component, Creally first punched up the
number in Health. There was a pause, a contact, then the
distinct click and buzz of a reroute.
"Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?" asked the familiar
voice. "I can't see you," said Veena. "We must have a bad
connection. Please try again."
Creally broke contact. Veena, he thought bitterly, Veena

PERFECT PEOPLE
141
and Weems. With her ambitions, he ought to have guessed
it. He punched up the woolly shop. There was a pause.
Another reroute. Then yet another.
this is mono, said a synthesized voice, give your en-
try clearance.
Frightened, Creally abruptly broke the contact.
Creally had slipped so quietly into the storage room that
he had caught Wendy unawares. She was sitting with her
back up against the wall, her legs drawn up so that her
chin rested on her knees. She was holding the old doll in
her hands, and she looked morose and indrawn. As soon as
she noticed Creally, however, she immediately perked up,
putting on a smile that seemed patently false.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Look, I'm working on getting you out of here."
"That's okay."
"No, it's not. We've got to get you out of here. Hey,
remember that dwelling where we found that hurt little
boy-spring? Well, it's empty now. There's a dwelling in-
spector who owes me a favor. I think I can use him. He
can probably hold the dwelling empty for a couple of
weeks, declare it uninhabitable until I can find something
more permanent."
She didn't seem interested.
"It doesn't have to be as messy as it was. I can get some
Zeroes to clean it up. Maybe we can even get you some
better furniture."
"I'm okay here. There's no rush," she said, and it puz-
zled him.
Creally sat down beside her. She remained silent, ab-
sently stroking the doll.
"This was my little sister's doll," she said.
"Oh . . ." said Creally. "I'm sorry."
She shrugged.
He was afraid that she would start to cry, but she didn't.

142
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
She seemed so oddly distant that he almost wished she
would. Today there were no questions. It seemed as if she
were building a wall around her, distancing herself from
him.
"Let's talk," he said.
"About what?"
"About what's troubling you."
"There's nothing."
"Is it me?"
"I said there's nothing."
Silence.
"Look at me and say that."
She turned and looked straight at him. "There's noth-
ing," she said, and there was a cold look in her eye.
There was another moment of silence. Creally suspected
he knew what it was. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"You know," he said, "you never asked what I was do-
ing out there near your dwellings. How I got the doll. How
I knew you had radio equipment. Don't you care?"
"No."
"I'd like to talk to you about it." ,
"I don't want to hear it," she said.
Later in the day, Wendy's mood appeared to improve.
After covering an interrogation in Delta, Creally came
back and took her out to a restaurant for a hot meal. It
seemed to revive her, until he noticed her hand in her kit
anxiously fingering the doll.
"You know," he said to her quietly as they sat at a
secluded table in the rear, "when I first brought you back
here, I was worried it would be nothing but trouble. I was
wrong. I really was. It's been . . . well, I've . . . I've
been very happy with you," he said abruptly, and she
looked a little uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," he apologized,
"I'm embarrassing you."
"No. No, it's not that."

PERFECT PEOPLE
143
"I wish I could make it up to you. Give you back your
old life. But there's no way I can."
"Please—" She tried to stop him.
"No, let me finish. I'm going to try to make your life
here as good as I can. You'll be out of the storeroom in a
couple of days at the most."
"No. Please don't take any more chances for me. Any
more risks."
"I don't regard them as risks. I do them because I want
to. I do them because—because I care for you."
That night, as Creally lay next to Veena listening to the
deep, rhythmic sounds of her breathing, he found himself
thinking back to the days he had spent wandering the lake
bed. He remembered climbing over the shale cliffs of the
ancient shore, feeling the congenial sun on his shoulders,
warm and penetrating, hearing the wind murmuring
through the brush—the stillness, the peace.
In the late hours, when he finally slipped into sleep,
Creally dreamed of the surface world. He dreamed of him-
self and Wendy roaming through a land lush and verdant,
the balmy air redolent with the smells of surface life, tast-
ing of damp, fecund earth, of grass and molds and flowers
-—real flowers, not concocted scents. And there were birds
and insects and water, plenty of water bubbling and gur-
gling in fast-running streams that he and Wendy splashed
in like two little springs.
29

144
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
In the morning, despite the scant hours of sleep, Creally
awoke before Veena, feeling excited, the germ of an idea
having taken hold of him. Eagerly he dressed and had
breakfast.
"Happy Creation Day." Veena sat up and stretched with
a sleepy smile.
"Oh, I almost forgot," said Creally, ready to leave.
"That's right. Creation Day," he repeated to himself and
thought, What a propitious time, what an appropriate day
to think of beginning a new life.
"I've got a present for you," said Veena, yawning
widely.
"And I've got one for you too," he said. "But let's trade
presents tonight, okay? Be One." Creally grinned and was
out the port before she could respond.
Outside, in the Upsilon corridors, the light was bright
and golden, the ceiling high and blue, the fragrance of a
thousand synthetic scents wafting into the corridors
through the ventilation system. A perfect Creation Day, as
it always was. Though there were people already on their
way to work, the corridors were still relatively empty,
some of the lucky ones who had a full day off taking ad-
vantage of the holiday to sleep in. Thanks to Creation Day
he, like everyone else at Headquarters who wasn't on
crowd control or emergency duty, would have the after-
noon off—a whole afternoon to be alone with Wendy with-
out the pretense of having to cover a case; an afternoon to
carelessly lose themselves in the crowds, maybe go for an
outing like an ordinary couple.
At the tube station under Upsilon, Creally stopped off at
one of the public holocons to update his journal.
"Entertainment file," he ordered after getting into the
general index. Outside the booth, people were streaming
past him on both sides, hurrying toward the growing
queues as capsules briskly rushed in and out of the station.
No one seemed to be paying any attention to him as he sat
in the booth.

PERFECT PEOPLE
145
form?
"Preprogrammed."
title?
"Hickorydickorydock."
In an instant Creally's own image was up, talking to
him, ". . . was schooled in the Creatoria Technicum and
after one year transferred . . ." Creally jumped to the end
of the file, paused, and then began adding to the swelling
diary.
"Last night I had a dream," he confessed to the
holocon. "In it I was with Wendy and we were up on the
surface world. It was beautiful there, green and luxuriant,
with more than enough water. Everything seemed so right,
and for the first time in my life, I felt truly at peace. It was
as though this was where I really belonged. When I woke
up this morning the feeling was still with me. I haven't
been able to shake it. Nor this crazy idea. To take Wendy
with me and just run away from Creatoria. It's insane, I
know it. How could I do it? I have a life here. It would
mean leaving everything—the people I know, the work I
do, the place that has been my home all my life. I can't just
throw everything away as if it didn't exist and start all over
... or can I? What is it that I would really be leaving?
What? My dwelling and job they can have. Veena? I feel
nothing for her anymore. She feels nothing for me. She
only wants things, status: a bigger dwelling, new furnish-
ings, new garb. That, and a spring. That poor woman. If I
feel anything for her, it's pity.
"I'm not the man I was before. I can't continue to live
here, trapped in a world of tunnels and warrens, a world of
mendacity and twisted thoughts. Every day is a lie. Why
stay? For friends? What friends? Family? I've got none.
There's nothing in the world holding me. Nothing worth-
while.
"If we leave, Wendy and I"—Creally lowered his voice
—"we have to go somewhere that's habitable and safe.
Where we won't get caught. The place that I saw in my

146
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
dream was perfect, deep and lush and fertile. Somehow I
know that it exists. My dreams have always been right. If
we could just get there, we could live off the land like
Wendy's people did. And Wendy knows how to do it. She
can teach me. The more I think of it, the more the idea of
escape makes sense. It's the only way I can keep her alive.
Keep myself alive. We've got to get out. I've got to tell her
today. Tell her—"
Creally glanced around to discover a woman behind
him, leaning up against the booth. A Nearly Perfect with a
heavy kit slung over her shoulder, she stood there openly
watching him. Nervously he wondered how long she had
been standing there, if she had been able to see or hear
anything. In a whisper he quickly closed the file and buried
it. He was getting reckless, he realized, slipping out of the
booth and letting the woman in. If he was ever to get
Wendy and himself out of Creatoria, he would have to be
more careful, keep his optimism under control, trust no
one.
At Headquarters there was a festive atmosphere, every-
body wearing smiles and joking. Some of the rookies were
busy stringing up decorations, long chains of colored lights
interspersed with images of the Creator of Creators and
large luminescent C.'s.
"Happy Creation Day," called Aarendeno from the dis-
patcher's booth.
30
i i

PERFECT PEOPLE
147
"Same to you," Creally waved in passing.
When Creally got settled in at his console, Nuudey ap-
peared in the portway.
"Happy Creation Day," she grinned shyly. "I've got
something for you," she said, going to her lab and re-
turning with a brightly wrapped package.
"For me?" asked Creally.
"Of course, silly!"
"Oh, you didn't have to. I—"
"Open it before you start gushing. You might not even
like it."
Creally unwrapped the gift. It was a swath of dark cloth.
Embroidered on it in yellow and red and green were flow-
ers and birds. For an instant he stood speechless. It was as
if she were omniscient.
"I made it myself," said Nuudey.
"Flowers and birds," he said, staring fixedly at the de-
sign. "How did you know? I mean, that I like those
things?"
She looked touched. "By the way, the material is very
old. I know how interested you are in artifacts."
"Oh, it's beautiful. Really. And I didn't even get you
anything."
"You don't have to. I just wanted to give you this."
"By the way," he said, breaking into a teasing grin,
"what is it?"
"It's a doily. You know, something you can put on your
console. Oh." She laughed, recognizing his smile for what
it was and, giving him a playful shove, marched back to
her lab.
Creally spread the doily on his console, then went down
the hall to check on Weems. The chief was already in his
office, hard at work. He looked up when Creally passed the
open port.
"Happy Creation Day!"
Creally returned the greeting with a broad smile and
walked on. From Aarendeno he learned that Weems had

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ROBERT LIEBERMAN
another hour of high-level meetings scheduled that morn-
ing at the Finance Ministry. The next time Creally looked
in the office, Weems was already gone. Making a quick
check in each direction, Creally slipped in and sealed the
port behind him.
Inside, Weems's console was neat and ordered, the
holocon cleared and off. Sitting down in Weems's deep
chair, Creally ran through the Statistical Recognition File,
performing his quick daily check. It came up clean. Wendy
was still invisible. He was following all the right routes. It
looks good, he thought. He hurried to the port, eager to
dispense with the morning briefing so he could share his
plan with Wendy.
Sneeling caught Creally unawares, just as he was emerg-
ing from Weems's office.
"Oh, the chief in?" he asked.
Creally froze. "I—I was just looking for him," he said,
collecting himself. Carelessness, blasted carelessness! he
cursed himself.
Sneeling's steely eyes blazed in the holiday brightness.
"I think he might be over in Finance."
"Then why did you ask me if he was in?" said Creally,
trying to stare him down.
"Oh, I wasn't checking up on you." Sneeling looked
back, matching Creally's gaze, then his eyes began to
waver. There was the slightest hint of a slouch to his shoul-
ders and, as Creally held him under scrutiny, Sneeling be-
gan to hunch over more and more like an abused spring
fearing to be whipped.
"Then what were you trying to do?"
"Just trying to be helpful, that's all," said Sneeling, forc-
ing a weak grin before turning and slinking down the hall.
Sneeling continued to hang around Creally's level, mak-
ing small talk in the halls with anyone he could corner. His
lurking presence was still obvious when Creally and his

PERFECT PEOPLE
149
squad filed out of the briefing room. Sneeling was still hov-
ering around when Weems returned from Finance.
"What in C.'s name are you idling around here for?"
Weems demanded and, despite Sneeling's whispered pro-
tests, sent him back to his unit in Vice.
With the corridors finally safe, Creally took off for the
storage room. In the quick trip up to the top level, Creally
could feel his anticipation mounting. He knew that as soon
as he saw Wendy he would blurt out his plan. The more he
thought about it, the more convinced he became that it
was the only reasonable action. Eagerly he stepped
through the port into the storage room. Squeezing between
the narrow aisle of shelves, he turned the corner leading to
her hiding place. The blankets and cushions were there on
the floor, but she wasn't.
"Wendy?" he whispered, looking around. "Wendy, you
here?"
Silence. The only sound he could make out was the
steady drip of a pipe.
"Wendy?" he called out, peeking between the racks and
shelves. "Where are you?" His pulse began to quicken.
"Wendy? Wendy?" He climbed over a high pile of machine
parts. Peered behind another shelf. "Wendy? You here?"
he called, his voice taking on a plaintive note. "Come out,
please," he pleaded, but she was nowhere in the room. The
panic began to rise in him, flooding his thoughts. She was
gone. They had caught her. Taken her away.
Rushing out, he took the ascendor back to his office.
Those killers, those rotten killers, he fumed. When the port
to the ascendor slid open, Moorty was standing in front of
him.
"Creally," she said, seeing the murderous look on his
face, "what in C.'s name is the matter?"
Her presence jolted him back to a semblance of reason.
"Nothing. Nothing," he said, shaking his head and
rushing past her. He continued on straight to his office, his
mind racing. If they had gotten Wendy, Sneeling would

150
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
hardly have been hanging around the corridor like the vul-
ture he was. He'd be in the interrogation room, grilling
her. And Weems. He'd be there too. No, there was too
much an air of normalcy for her to have been caught. She
was probably out, out on her own. He plopped his dispatch
button into his ear.
"Give me the running log," he ordered his holocon as he
listened to the button's staccato chatter in his ear. Two
Toxes in the Alpha Stadium area were creating a distur-
bance amid the growing Creation Day crowds. An ambu-
lance was needed for an unidentified woman who had just
run into an express tube and thrown herself in front of a
high-speed capsule . . .
The log came up on image: A Tox who had been picked
up trying to climb aboard a suborb was being interrogated
in P.M. Headquarters. A six-year-old girl-spring had been
found wandering aimlessly in the vicinity of the
Technicum and was being temporarily cared for by Spring
Services. A mother reported her two-year-old lost in the
crowds of Alpha—possible springnapping. The Nearly
Perfect that P.M. Headquarters had been looking for for
questioning had finally been spotted in Kappa sector. All
units in the area were advised to stay alerted. In his ear the
button was still squawking. An ascendor was stuck in Tau
at the Sigma boundary, eight people panicked inside, one
unconscious. More P.M.'s urgently needed for crowd con-
trol in Alpha. Not a word about a strange Imperfect.
Creally chewed on his thumb and waited. Waited and
tried to think. Tried to think and listen and watch. Had
they picked her up? Did they already have her? Yes, his
fears again swung full circle, they might easily have her. If
they could eliminate a whole tribe of Hairy Ones so effi-
ciently, surely they could, at this very moment, be killing
or torturing her with the greatest semblance of normalcy.
Wendy, where are you? He strained to concentrate as if by
sheer will he could make her materialize. And as the sense
of loss assaulted him, he realized how he cared only for

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151
her, loved—yes, that was the word—loved only her, and
would do anything, risk anything. Suddenly her voice
came back to him in a rush. Those warm special feelings.
The kind you have when you 're with someone you really like
and when they're gone you miss them terribly.
"Yes. Yes." The words broke from his lips. "I miss you
terribly. Terribly." And then it hit him. The doll. That
stupid doll she always had in her hands. Had he seen it in
the storage room? Was it still there? If it was, then they
had nabbed her. It would be her signal to him. If it was
gone, then she had left of her own will.
He raced out of his office and down the corridor, nearly
running into Weems.
"What's all the hurry?" asked Weems, startled, but
Creally was already well past him.
The ascendor took a lifetime to rise to the upper level.
As the port began to slide open Creally was already wedg-
ing himself through the widening crack. He crashed his
way through the shelves, jars and bits of junk toppling to
the floor, as the button in his ear continued its incessant
chatter—a Perfect had died in the crush and heat of the
Alpha Stadium crowds, another spring missing ... At
her hiding place, he tore through her things. Her blankets.
The portable holoprojector. Cushions. Capsules of plank.
No doll. Lifting the blankets on end, he deliberately shook
each one out. Still no doll. He riffled through her meager
belongings, even checked the inside of the chamber pot.
Still no doll. No doll.
As he traveled down in the ascendor, Creally's mind was
leaping. She had left. Actually left. But why? And where
to? The port opened and he bolted for his office, his mind
sifting through all she had said and done in the last days,
hunting for a clue. Those questions of hers. Of course!
They were always about either the Infrastructure or the
Creator. And today, today of all days, she decides to take
off. . . . Was she trying to get to the Creator? Was she
crazy enough to think she could kill Him? Or . . . or,

152
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
taking advantage of the day's confusion, was she attempt-
ing to jump a suborb and escape Creatoria on her own?
Either way, she was finished. In the stadium there was no
way she could get within a hundred meters of the Creator
without being picked up. If she tried to board a suborb
without a validated voucher, she'd be intercepted immedi-
ately. On the transports the security was tight and primed,
not like the sluggish Infrastructure ports she had learned
to outsmart.
Creally paced back and forth in front of his console,
frantically trying to reason, trying to put himself in her
place. But he couldn't second-guess her, and all that re-
mained was the gut-wrenching urgency warning that if he
didn't get her, catch her quickly, Weems and the others
would. He wanted to run, chase her, put his body into
movement, but to where? The stadium or suborb station?
Alpha or Nu? A High Alert, he thought. It was the only
sure, quick way to find out—throw all the sensors and
airlocks on High Alert. Only twice in all his years as a
P.M. had he ever dared employ it. It would snag Wendy.
But as sure as it would detect her, it would tell everyone in
the P.M. system that it had been used. And there was no
sneaking into Weems's office to do it. He would have to do
it here. Here and now.
Nuudey stuck her head in the port. "Hey, Creally, you
coming?"
"Huh?" Creally swung around.
"To the office party. Everyone's there."
"Oh, the party. Yeah, sure." He forced a smile.
"What's the matter?" she inquired solicitously. "You
look like you've seen a ghost."
Creally forced a laugh. It came out sounding harsh and
false to his own ears. "Go on ahead. I'll be right over."
"Okay. See you there," Nuudey smiled, waved and left.
Creally faced his holocon.
"Flank it!" he said, banging his fist on the console with
such force that everything rattled. "Alert!" he blurted out.

PERFECT PEOPLE
153
Immediately the log disappeared and the image that re-
mained was a sphere of white light suspended in front of
him.
"Alert!"
status?
"High Alert."
clearance?
"P.M. 126303874."
points?
"Ports. Airlocks. General corridor sensors. Full sensory
alert."
sectors?
Creally thought. Tore his hands through his hair.
sectors?
"All. All!"
The holocon paused as if drawing a breath. From out in
the halls Creally could hear the dozens of P.M. holocons
simultaneously running the noisy reportage from Alpha.
"Our Creator. Our Creator. Our . . ." came the relayed
chant of a million people, the intensity climbing as the tiers
of humanity in the stadium waited with heightened expec-
tation. His heart thundering in his chest, Creally watched
as the holocon made priority contact with the Mainframe,
overriding all existing functions. Once the alert was in ef-
fect, anyone in Headquarters trying to query it would draw
a blank as the alert, usurping capacity, held everything in
momentary suspension.
"I don't care. I don't care," Creally repeated to himself,
drowning out the unified chant. They can do whatever
they want to me, but I've got to save her.
The holocon was ready for input.
sensor mode?
"Facial," said Creally. "Facial, voice, and chemo."
parameters?
"Facial profile, Imperfect. Voice profile, non-Newage
dialect, also Imperfect."
imperfect? confirm

154
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"You heard me!"
just confirming. chemo?
"Give me lab functions," said Creally urgently and, in
an instant, he was racing backward through Nuudey's re-
ports, stopping when he found the profile she had done on
the hair. "Use this chemo profile with widened spectrum."
stand by
The lab reports disappeared, leaving again only the hot
white halo of the cleared holocon.
high alert now in effect in all sectors, all
sensors, came the holocon's voice, an edge of urgency to
it, as a fully labeled and dimensioned map of the
Creatorian Infrastructure filled Creally's vision, pinpoints
of lights marking the alerted sensors, blinking like stars in
a heaven of constellations.
Holding his breath, Creally waited. Wendy. She was
somewhere there. Had to be.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
"What the flank's taking so long?" He cursed.
on high alert and processing, responded the ma-
chine, refusing to take the bait.
Maybe they really did have her already? Maybe this was
all part of the ruse to let him indict himself?
Suddenly a tone. A blip. A fixed red light.
detection, mu sector, nu boundary, level-2 cor-
ridor 138-a. subject moving.
Another blip. Another light. Another tone. It was
Wendy. She was moving. Moving peripherally on foot. Pe-
ripherally! The Nu extreme! That stupid, naive girl-spring!
Creally resisted the impulse to run, waited another min-
ute. When he saw the third detection light in a linear path,
he barked, "Remove Alert."
sensors?

PERFECT PEOPLE
155
"All sensors, all sectors, remove alert. Immediately."
The image of the Infrastructure collapsed and was swal-
lowed up into the white halo.
"Clear all the inputs and outputs of this alert, erase from
memory."
clearing
Creally chewed on his knuckle. "Erase. Come on, blast
it, erase!"
cleared
"Erase!"
erased, came the response, and Creally bolted from his
office. Outside the Headquarters complex, all the holocons
as far as the eye could see were on, imaging the stadium.
The corridors of Central Lambda were packed with
throngs of holiday-goers, people dressed in their finery,
whole families with springs in hand, moving leisurely up
and down the corridors, stopping to chat and smile.
Creally charged through the mass in the main corridor,
shoving his way through, until he was in the clear and
running. At an intersection, a Perfect coming around a
corner inadvertently stepped in Creally's way and Creally
hit him so hard he spun full circle as he fell to the ground.
At the ascendors on the far end of the corridor there was a
long line and Creally, flashing his memex badge, jumped
the queue and jammed himself into an already packed as-
cendor. To the astonishment of the passengers, Creally
used his P.M. status to override all their stops and had the
machine plunge at sickening speed down to the eighth
level.
As soon as the doors opened, Creally broke into a run,
vaulting a turnstile, and racing through the tube station.
Here, too, there were lines. A single capsule stood in the
station, a young newly mated couple just getting into it.
"Out!" cried Creally, flashing his memex badge.
The couple froze in surprise.
"Out! Get out! P.M. emergency!" he shouted, and before
they could respond, he had each of them by an arm and

156
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
was dragging them out of the capsule. Jumping in, he
slammed closed the hatch, punched in the Nu coordinates,
and put the vehicle on full emergency status.
"Hey, you can't do that," cried the male Perfect, angrily
banging on the hatch.
"We're going to report you!" shouted the female as
Creally's capsule moved olf down the tube, quickly accel-
erating to full speed. People on his left and right were
sidetracked onto spurs as he shot headlong along a periph-
eral express route. Lambda and Central Mu sectors passed
him in a blur. Then he was crossing the Nu boundary.
"Come on. Come on," said Creally, anxiously banging
his fist on the dash. A moment later he was taking a sharp
turn, moving radially outward along a cleared express
tube. When he pulled into the station at the Nu extreme,
Creally saw that it was almost empty—all the people were
apparently congregating in the central areas. The as-
cendors were free, and Creally took the first one directly
up to the top level. When it opened, he was a hundred
meters from the entrance to the siiborb station. Calling on
all his reserves of energy, Creally sprinted headlong up the
corridor, the airlocks serially flying open to accommodate
his speed.
Creally burst into the station, coming to a sliding halt on
the polished surface, as astonished heads turned to gawk at
him. Gasping for breath, he scanned the central waiting
room. A group of five Perfects stood to one side with their
baggage. A family with two young springs holding hands
was waiting by an exit. Another group of six. Another of
two. Everyone was staring at him.
t minus five and boarding
Then Creally spotted her. Wendy. Down at the far end
of a radial. She was heading toward the gate.
"Wait!" he shouted hoarsely. "Wait!"
She turned. Saw him. Then deliberately turned again
and hurried on. She vaulted the turnstile and began to

PERFECT PEOPLE
157
move up the gangway. In an instant she would be entering
the suborb and the portway sensors would send the alarm.
"Wait! Wendy! Wait!" he cried, tearing up the last
stretch of the radial. Leaping the turnstile, he ran up the
gangway after her, his hands outstretched in front of him.
"Stop! Stop! Stop!" he gasped, his fingertips contacting her
just as she moved in front of the portway sensors. Grasp-
ing blindly, he dug his fingers into the fabric of her skin,
took scant hold, and yanked backward, hearing the skin
rip as she tried to pull away. Then he was grabbing her
again, this time by the hair, tugging and pulling her back-
ward as she kicked and clawed and fought.
"Let me go!" she cried, jamming her fists mercilessly
into his gut. "Let me go!"
At the station end of the radial a crowd stood forming,
people pointing and whispering.
"Stop," Creally hissed as she fought against him with
every limb. In desperation he wrestled her to the ground.
"Stop fighting," he said through gritted teeth, but she
didn't relent, only struggled more under his pinning
weight. "They're going to catch you. You can't go on. Stop
already. Somebody'll report us."
"I don't care! I don't care any more. I want to go. I want
to go home!"
Creally looked up and saw a group of bewildered pas-
sengers, standing framed in the portway, staring down at
them. From the other end of the radial he heard someone
loudly suggest calling the P.M.'s.
t minus three and boarding
Keeping Wendy pinned with his knees, Creally reached
into his pocket and brought out his memex badge.
"It's okay. This is official P.M. business," he called out,
waving the badge to both ends of the radial. "Just a little
erratic behavior. Nothing serious."
People turned to each other and muttered.
"Everything's under control. Now, why don't you all get

158
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
back in," he said with a soothing smile to the passengers.
"Go on."
Reluctantly the group disbanded.
Restraining her in a hammerlock, Creally brought
Wendy to her feet and quickly moved her back into the
station.
"Shall we call more P.M.'s for assistance?" inquired a
helpful male Perfect.
"No thanks. Everything's under control now. Appreci-
ate your concern," he said, a trickle of blood seeping from
a split in his lip.
The shocked crowd parted as he moved Wendy through
the station. Her hair was wild and standing on end, her
skin hung limp over one shoulder, exposing her breast and
nipple.
"Let me go!"
"Shhhh. Keep your voice down," he whispered, twisting
her arm.
"I will not keep my voice down! Owww!" she cried, and
grimaced in pain when he twisted harder.
"You fool," he muttered angrily. "You don't know what
the flank you're doing. You can't jump those portway sen-
sors."
"I don't care! I want to go home! I want to go
hoooome!" she wailed and locked her feet.
"Come on. Let's get out of here." He tried to budge her
but she refused to move. Grasping her under her arms,
Creally dragged her along the station floor. "Everything's
under control. Everything's okay," he smiled to the gaping
people who stood watching his retreat. "Official P.M. busi-
ness," he said, passing through the main port. "Just a little
erratic behavior, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

When they got down to the transport level, Creally's cap-
sule, still on emergency status, was waiting for them.
"Get in," he ordered, rudely shoving her so that she
glanced her head on the side of the hatch. Climbing in
behind her, Creally slammed shut the hatch and moved
the capsule down the tube. Sidetracking it on an empty
spur, he took it off emergency status and sat there, furious
and exhausted, his hands still trembling.
"You know, you got a lot of brains!" he said, finally
turning to her. She was sitting with her head lowered, her
hair hiding her face, the doll cradled in her hands in front
of her. "You listening to me?"
She didn't respond.
"Stop pouting! I just saved your life."
Silence.
"And take that flanking doll thing out of your hands
and listen to me!" He grabbed the doll and angrily threw it
down on the floor.
She remained mute, and her silence drove Creally into a
frenzy.
"You idiot!" he hissed. "You ungrateful little twerp!"
Slowly she turned and looked up at him. "Ungrateful?"
she uttered, her eyes narrowing into slits. "Ungrateful for
what?"
"I've risked everything for you. My career, my life—"
"Who asked you to?"
"I did it for you."
"Did I ever ask you to?"
31

160
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Was I supposed to leave you at the delta? Let you die
like the others?"
"Yes. Yes!"
"Well, I couldn't," he said, suddenly feeling the force of
his anger dissipating.
She reached down and tentatively picked up the doll,
casting a sideways glance at him. Creally looked away. He
swallowed and drew a long breath.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to grab you so
hard."
Silence.
". . . and I'm sorry about the names I just called you."
Creally waited. Then, when she gave no response and
the silence began to irritate him again, he said, "You're
supposed to have the decency to say that you're sorry too."
"Who says? The Creator?" she asked, a distorted
Creatorian-perfect smile twisting her face. "Well, I'm not
sorry. I'm only sorry I didn't get away."
"You didn't have a chance, don't you understand?"
She didn't answer.
"You know"—he sadly shook his head—"it's funny how
I deluded myself. I actually believed that you cared for me.
That somehow we could, together, well . . ." He trailed
off.
With a finger she repeatedly traced the face of the doll.
"I cared for you," she mumbled. "I did. I do."
"Uh-uh, you were using me. You were planning all
along to run away." He was thinking about Headquarters,
about the High Alert; how, until that move, he had not
incriminated himself.
"That's not true," she said tersely.
"At least be honest."
"Okay. So I was planning on getting away. But you
couldn't expect me to stay here."
"Why not?"
"Why not? I was being buried. Buried alive. That's why
not."

PERFECT PEOPLE
161
"The storage room was only temporary. I was looking
for a place for you. I—"
"It wasn't the storage room. It's this place. This whole
sick place. I know my people are dead," she said, gritting
her teeth. "But you people are worse than dead. You live
here like ants. Little insects. Crawling around in tunnels,
smugly smiling at each other. And this noise," she said,
holding her hands to her ears. "This damn noise. I can't
stand it any more. You can never get away from it."
"But—" Creally tried to interruot.
"But nothing! I can't exist like tfiis. I'm alive. I'm a
human being. I need light. Real light. I need air. Fresh
air," she cried out, her chest suddenly wracked by coughs
that cut Creally to the core. "I've got to be able to
breathe." She gasped when the spasm subsided. "I'm being
suffocated here."
"Shhh." He placed his arm around her.
"No! Don't touch me!" She threw his arm off. "I want to
yell. I want to scream if I feel like it. I have to be able to
sing," she wailed, then broke into wrenching sobs.
Creally put his hand lightly on hers and she left it there.
"I know"—she brought the doll to her face and wept
into it—"I can't go back." She began to weep louder, her
tears coursing down her cheeks. Creally pulled her close
and she grasped him tightly and cried against his chest.
"I—I know they're all gone," she sobbed, her face still
buried.
Creally let her cry for a moment, then lifted her face and
held it in front of him. Vagrant strands of hair clung to her
wet cheeks. Her bronzing was streaked, her eye makeup
smeared.
"You're right about us," he said quietly. "We're dead
here. All dead."
"No, not all. Not you, Creally. And you've got a heart, I
know it."
"But do you know that I care for you?"
With closed eyes, she nodded her tearstained face.

162
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"Care deeply. That I"—he struggled—"that I love
you," he said, employing the strange word.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. "It wasn't that I
was running from you. You know that." She wiped her
nose on her sleeve.
"I know. I probably would have done the same thing if I
were you. And you had no idea about the special transport
sensors and travel vouchers. That was my fault." He then
told her about the High Alert.
"Oh, God. I'm sorry. It wasn't planned. Not until yes-
terday really. I had thought about it, but it wasn't easy. I
didn't want to do this to you. I didn't want to hurt you.
But how could I stay here, live in this hole? Stay with a
man who—though kind and gentle—believes all this shit
about the Creator and the—"
"I never said I believed it! I just told you what the story
was. That's all. I don't believe anything these people say
anymore. But tell me, what is it you know that I don't?
What is it that's so important that—"
"What difference does it make now?" she said, stuffing
her doll in her kit. "After that scene, we're probably as
good as dead." She snuffled and wiped her eyes.
"Things are worse, sure, but we're not finished. Not yet.
If you let me help you, we still have a chance."
"Do I have a choice?" she asked, and for the first time
she gave a faint smile.
"Come on, fix your face and let's get out of here," said
Creally, punching in a new set of coordinates. The capsule
left the spur and moved into an express radial, linking into
a passing train. "I've got an idea."
"Where are we going?" she asked as their capsule picked
up speed and streaked across the underbelly of Creatoria.
"To lower Alpha. To get you some air. I should have
thought of it earlier."
"Air?"
"The museum."

PERFECT PEOPLE
163
"Where?"
"Hang on. You'll see."
Up and down the museum station, the holocons were all
on, large clumps of people gathered around each of them.
Emerging from their capsule, Creally and Wendy could see
the repeated images of the Creator towering over the peo-
ple on the platform, his multiple faces gazing out at them
with a benevolent and omniscient smile. As he spoke, his
melodic voice echoing in the station, young and old, adults
and springs, gaped in mesmerized awe.
". . . and yes, my children, our great Father, Creator of
Creators, who, on the potter's wheel of his benevolent imagi-
nation, created you from his mind's image of perfection.
You, his cherished children, must not be forgotten. Espe-
cially on this most holy of holy days ..."
Creally attempted to pass through the throng, but
Wendy held him, trying to listen. Around them, she no-
ticed, some of the more religious were pressing tiny golden
helixes to their lips.
". . . Our first Father who breathed life into the dust
that was our bodies ..."
"Come on, let's get out of here," whispered Creally.
"I just want to listen for a second."
"Shhhh!" said an annoyed elderly Perfect, turning to
them.
A Zero fumbled through the crowd on his way to the
museum entrance, but no one seemed to notice.
". . . Banishing avarice and murder and evil from the
human soul forever ..."
"Let's go," said Creally, getting impatient. He took
Wendy's hand and she went with him but kept turning her
head, trying to catch bits and pieces as they walked.
". . . So that today /, your Creator, spiritual incarnation
of our first Father, can guide His children on the path of
moral righteousness ..."
Leaving the station, they approached the museum en-

164
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
trance, a big sign proclaiming museum of earth his-
tory, and another series of holocons.
". . . Only through deep belief and prayer, " the Creator
was now saying, his seductive voice taking on an entranc-
ing note. ". . . Through dedication . . . Family . . .
Gain strength . . . Reach for heavenly perfection . . .
High levels of production . . . More efficient employ-
ment ..."
At the entrance, while everyone, including the atten-
dant, was taken up with the Creator, they both leapt the
turnstile. In the museum plaza, they caught the Creator's
last words.
"So let us pray to continue to remain One. One family.
One people. One dream. I pray that you Be One," the old
man intoned. His image faded and a commercial message
came up.
"This way," said Creally.
"Why, it's wonderful!" exclaimed Wendy as they moved
down the walkway past the medieval area. On their right,
beyond a stretch of meadow that had the depth and vista
of a vast, rolling countryside, stood a stone castle sur-
rounded by a moat. Further down the path, behind a grove
of trees, they could make out the walled garden of a renais-
sance palazzo. In the garden there were men and women in
colorful costumes, drinking and laughing. From out of the
castle on the lowered drawbridge poured a line of armored
32

PERFECT PEOPLE
165
men on horseback, swords drawn, cutting the dusty air
amid the clatter of metal and the thunder of hoofbeats.
Farther down the sidewalk was an exhibit of early
earthmen, crouching in their caves and roasting hunks of
freshly killed flesh. Beyond them, prehistoric creatures
shrieked and bellowed in a primal forest of ferns and an-
cient trees. Real ferns. Real trees. And overhead there
hung a bright sun moving between high, puffy clouds, a
sun warm and golden, tracing a long, steady arc.
"Oh, let's go here," Wendy tugged Creally toward the
castle. "No, wait." She changed her mind again, and
Creally laughed. For the moment, surrounded by all the
greenery and life and seeing Wendy happy, Creally felt the
threat to their lives suspended. Events like a High Alert or
being zeroed out, people like Weems and Sneeling, had no
reality here. "Come on," she tugged again.
In the end, they followed a path that led to a jungle area.
Except for a couple of Zeroes who sat on benches with
museum transceivers half plugged into their ears, mum-
bling confused nonsense and staring numbly out at the
scene, Creally and Wendy had the exhibit to themselves.
As they wandered along the crooked path, the rest of the
museum seemed to fall away, immersing them in an equa-
torial rain forest of towering, broad-buttressed trees, of
choking vines and lianas draped over branches. There was
a refreshing, wet fragrance to the air, and punctuated
against the subdued but dense undergrowth were brightly
colored birds. Bee-eaters and hornbills, pittas and quetzals
and motmots that Wendy could have sworn were real. A
monkey high in a palm tree threw a fruit rind at them and
Creally, ducking, laughed. Overhead, the clouds thick-
ened. It became dark, the rumble of thunder filled the air,
and they were doused in a shower. Fleeing the downpour,
they dashed ahead, the jungle merging with a mangrove
swamp filled with storks and herons that in turn yielded to
an ocean coast with a pungent, salty wind, fiddler crabs
darting over the sand away from the incoming surf.

166
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"It's all so real," said Wendy as they later meandered
through a veldtlike plain of high grass punctuated by small
acacias and baobabs, the sun setting in a blazing red as a
mild breeze ruffled their hair.
"It is real. I mean, the plants and trees are real. Sure, the
sun isn't. It's kind of hard, using only four levels, to give
any real height to the sky and clouds, but . . ."
Two families of Perfects passed them, coming in the
opposite direction. All six, including the springs, were bus-
ily babbling into their transceivers, asking the museum's
processor questions, failing even to notice Creally and
Wendy.
"Oh, look," she said as they moved toward a cluster of
thatched huts in a clearing. Dark-skinned, half-naked peo-
ple stood clutching wooden pestles, laboring amid a low
babble of strange tongues punctuated by the rhythmic
beating of drums.
A passing attendant, noticing that they didn't have
transceivers, olfered to get Creally a pair from the en-
trance.
"Otherwise you'll be missing the best part," warned the
man. "It's all explained."
Creally thanked him but declined.
"Well, whatever you do," said the attendant before mov-
ing on, "be sure to see the Great War exhibit. We've got
some new missiles. Authentic ones just unearthed."
A moment later they were turning a bend in the walk-
way and found themselves in another aboriginal area.
"Look," said Wendy, gesticulating excitedly. "Tents!"
"Yes. Cones." Creally walked as close as permitted
along the path and stopped. Before them stood a broken
circle of cones, open to the east. In the foreground near
one of the cones were a group of men and women with
reddish-hued skin, their bodies clad in hides and adorned
with bird feathers and paint. They were all busily working,
a trio of warriors fitting heads to their arrows, a couple of
women stretching skins and stitching hides; corn was being

PERFECT PEOPLE
167
ground in a mortar while an old woman labored over a
fire. Wendy stood entranced. When Creally tried to move
on, she didn't seem to notice.
"Let's go," he coaxed, "there's lots more to see."
The sun fell and darkness suddenly overcame the mu-
seum.
"Come on."
Silently they made their way through the bright, simu-
lated moonlight. After a short while the sun was rising
again, fiery and red in the east, as the museum continued
to fill with holiday-goers. After a quick snack in the muse-
um's restaurant, Creally and Wendy continued their explo-
ration, sampling exhibits traversing a span of time from
prehistoric to pre-Perfection, from a subtropical jungle to
a Ming Dynasty court to a pre-War urban slum of black-
and brown-skinned Imperfects armed with crude weapons.
Weapons. Everywhere there was humanity, there seemed
to be weapons. From sabers and maces, to cannons and
machine guns and nuclear-tipped missiles. Everywhere, of
course, but in the model Creatorian abode where mother
and father, boy-spring and girl-spring—all idealized Per-
fects—lived in their swanky dwelling fully equipped with
the latest consoles and furnishings.
"What a bore," whispered Wendy. The exhibit was
crowded with people vying for a look, ooh'mg and ahhxng
the new gadgets and sparkling appliances.
"You're not going to get any argument from me there,"
said Creally, glad to move on.
The sun rose, fell again, morning yielded to night then
to day again. The two walked until their feet ached and
always, always Wendy kept returning to the village of
cones where she sat with Creally on the bench, staring out
at the tents.
museum of earth history closing in ten min-
utes, came the mechanized announcement late in the day,
breaking the illusion of the aboriginal village and bringing
Creally back to the threatening realities of Creatoria.

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ROBERT LIEBERMAN
Obediently, people began to move to the exits, surren-
dering their transceivers at the main entrance.
"What would happen if I stepped out there?" Wendy
turned from the cones to look at Creally.
Creally shrugged.
"I mean, do they have sensors?"
"I don't really know."
Wendy got up and moved off the walkway, gingerly step-
ping into the grass.
"Ahhh, it feels good. It's real. Real grass!" She slipped
off her boots and walked barefoot toward the village, stop-
ping at the first cones. Around her the feathered aborigines
were still working on their tasks, still stitching up the same
skins, pounding the same corn flour. Farther, beyond her,
deeper into the scene, were other tents that, she now real-
ized, were just miniaturize versions of the ones in front.
When, standing in the forced perspective, she turned
around to look at Creally, everything in the museum
looked distorted and he loomed like a giant. She touched a
tent. The automated aborigines didn't give her as much as
a look.
"Come," she whispered and waved to Creally, who
shook his head adamantly. "Come on," she urged.
Finally, nervously checking both ways, he came.
"Wow!" he said, turning around dizzily.
"Look. Touch it. It's a real tent. Feel it."
Creally tentatively ran his fingers over the cloth.
museum is now closing. please use exits immedi-
ately.
"Hey, look, we'd better get out of here," he said uneas-
ily. "They're closing."
"Let me stay," she said.
"What? Here?"
"Yes."
"But—"
"I can't go back to the storage room again. Please.
Please let me stay here."

PERFECT PEOPLE
169
"They might catch you here."
"I'd never tell about you if they did."
"That's not what I'm worried about. It's you I'm con-
cerned about."
"Then let me stay. Here at least I'm happy."
Creally looked around. "What about plank? There's
nothing to eat here. There's—"
"We just had a bite. And I can go a night without food.
You can bring me something tomorrow. You could,
couldn't you?"
"Sure, but—"
"Then let me stay."
"But—"
"Please," she pleaded. "Please."
the museum is now closed. all doors locking.
"You'd better go," she said to him. "Hurry."
He hesitated. She moved close to him and put her arms
around him. "Kiss me," she whispered softly.
"Huh?"
"You know." She brought her face close to his. "With
your mouth."
"I know. But—"
"But what?"
He looked uncomfortable.
"Come on, live dangerously," she laughed and brought
her lips gently to his. He didn't resist, but neither did he
react. She pressed her mouth tighter against his. Slowly,
unsurely, his arms rose from his sides and enfolded her.
When her tongue wandered into his mouth and touched
his, a shock passed through him and he quivered in her
embrace.
"Hurry now," she said, pulling away. Creally looked
stunned and baffled. "Hurry," she said, turning him to-
ward the exit and giving him a loving push.

Creally was there the next morning, almost as soon as the
museum was open. Tucked into his heavy kit were contain-
ers of water and capsules filled with plank, together with a
blanket and a couple of Wendy's skins he had taken from
the storage room. Creally went directly to the aboriginal
area, but when he got to the cones he couldn't find her.
There was only an old, bedraggled Tox standing on the
walkway, staring out blankly at the village. Anxiously he
hurried through the other exhibits where he thought he
might find her: the rain forest, the savanna, the pre-indus-
trial revolution display. Coming full circle, he returned to
the cones. The Tox was now sitting on one of the benches,
facing the village. Fumbling with a small pile of tobacco,
he was furtively trying to roll it into a piece of tissue.
Creally watched him for an instant, then suddenly looked
up. There was something strange about the aboriginal vil-
lage. As he studied it again, he realized there was one more
aborigine there than there had been the previous day. The
aborigine was a young female dressed in buckskin with
long braids and a feather stuck in her hair. She was helping
the old woman tend the fire. When she looked over her
shoulder at him and winked, Creally rolled his eyes heav-
enward and breathed a sigh of relief.
Creally turned back to the Tox.
"What's that you've got there?" he asked in a loud
voice, and when the startled man looked up with his blood-
shot eyes there was a memex badge stuck in his face. His
33

PERFECT PEOPLE
171
hands began to tremble and when he snuck a glance down,
his precious tobacco lay spilled in his lap.
"Oh, C." he moaned, caught with the goods. "Please,
sir, give me a break."
Creally was stung by a twinge of pity. "Just move on,"
he said gently and the Tox, flashing a gratitude-filled smile
of yellowed teeth, fell all over himself.
"Oh, thank you, sir. You're a fine P.M., sir, if ever there
was one. Yes, sir." He kept bowing as he hurriedly backed
away from the exhibit area.
Kit in hand, Creally sprinted over the grass and into the
tent Wendy held open for him.
"Please don't play games like that," he said under his
breath, "unless you want to see me get a heart attack!"
She gave him a quick kiss on the lips before he could say
another word. "I wasn't playing games. The old guy was
standing there. There was nothing I could do but melt in.
It works, though, doesn't it?"
"Works for a Tox, maybe. Where did you get the garb
and feathers? And all this stuff?" he asked, looking around
the inside of the tent, which she had outfitted with hides
and coarse woven blankets, creating a comfy little nest for
herself. Her doll sat propped up against a piece of fur
rolled into a pillow.
"Last night I found the place where they keep all the
costumes and supplies. You like?" she said, turning full
circle for him in her buckskin dress.
"Looks good on you. Oh, I brought you some plank.
You must be starved." He bent down and started unpack-
ing. "And some water too. You're probably even more
thirsty than hungry."
"Not really," she said with a guilty smile.
"Oh?" Creally looked up.
"There's plenty of water here. There's a little pond in
the jungle. I tried it. The water's good. Very good. It's
almost sweet. And there's fruit here too. Look." She dug

172
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
among the hides and brought out a red, spherical object.
Creally looked concerned. "It's okay. It's real."
"What—what is it?"
"It's an apple," she said, polishing it on her sleeve.
Creally took it and, turning it in his hand, examined it
as it shone with a red luster in the sunlight filtering
through the fabric of the tent.
"Try it."
Creally eyed the fruit suspiciously.
Grabbing it from him, Wendy took a big bite and
chewed.
"See, it won't kill you," she said with full mouth, hold-
ing out the bright, bitten sphere. "Go on. Try it."
Extending his head, Creally took a small, tentative bite.
Chewed cautiously. "Mmmmm, not bad." He took a sec-
ond, larger bite. "You know, you're not supposed to eat the
exhibits," he laughed. "Seriously. They might notice."
"They won't miss an apple or two," she said confidently.
"They just fall on the ground and rot."
"Well, anyway, I brought you some plank." Creally took
out the capsules and tucked them under the skins. "I've
gotta run. I'm already late for work. But—but there's
something I have to ask you one more time."
"What?"
"Tell me the truth this time. Are there any other tribes
left like your family?"
She didn't answer.
"If there are, you've got to trust me and tell me. We've
got to get out of here."
She looked at him, surprised.
"Out of Creatoria," he added. "Well, are there?"
"Yes."
"Good. I thought so. Where?"
"There's another family left. We talked to them on the
radio."
"But where?"
"They're somewhere on the southern coast of the Indian

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173
subcontinent." She tried to describe their location as best
she could.
"That's not much to go on," he said, "but it's a start."
Creally opened the tent a crack and peered out.
"I'll be back later," he whispered. And pulling her tight,
he surprised her by kissing her long and deep. Then, before
she could utter a word, he dashed from the tent.
By the time Creally got to Headquarters, it was late and
his Domestic team was already waiting for him in the
briefing room. After punching himself in on duty at his
console, he hurried to the meeting, aware of the stares in
the corridor, the whispers behind his back. Everybody was
talking about the High Alert. When he entered the room,
his P.M.'s fell silent. There was none of the usual morning
banter. The smiles were polite but noticeably superficial.
Creally noisily cleared his throat.
"Well, let's get down to the day's business," he said, and
began the review of outstanding cases. He could barely
concentrate and kept making mistakes, confusing assign-
ments and names and sectors. "I've got a bit of a head-
ache," he mumbled by way of excuse at the end of the
meeting and quickly made for the port.
As Creally emerged from the briefing room, Aarendeno
hailed him from his booth down the hall.
"There's an important message on your holocon," he
said as if Creally wouldn't see it.
34

174
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
Creally didn't even have to look. He knew it was from
Weems.
"Come in, Creally," said the chief as Creally hesitated in
the portway. "I've been waiting to see you."
"Yes, sir."
Creally entered and Weems, ensconced in his comfort-
able seat, kept him standing.
"Someone threw the system into High Alert yesterday."
"Yes, sir," he said, taking the initiative. "It was me."
"You? But—"
"There was a springnapping yesterday in Alpha. A girl-
spring."'
"So?"
"The situation warranted it. There wasn't time to con-
sult anyone. I had to act fast."
"But pull a High Alert? There are other ways, you know
that," said Weems. His face was serious, his features hard-
ened.
"I had a hunch they were taking her out of Creatoria. I
was right. I caught them at the last moment in the suborb
station," he said, thinking on his feet. He thought he
caught a glimmer of recognition on Weems's face at the
mention of the station. "The pair got away." Which
matched the lack of an arrest. "The girl-spring was so up-
set, I first took her to the museum before bringing her back
home." The museum.
"I see," said Weems. He looked vaguely satisfied.
"Anything else, sir?"
"No, no," he said, turning back to his work. "I just
don't want to see the High Alert abused."
"It's the first time I've used it in years."
"I'm fully aware of that," said the chief, putting him in
his place, then he went back to work on his console.
Creally turned to leave. As long as Weems doesn't dig, he
was thinking, I'm safe for the moment. But there were far
too many loose ends already.

PERFECT PEOPLE
175
"I'm going to be sorry to lose you," Weems said without
looking up. Creally, who was halfway to the port, froze.
"Lose me?" he turned cautiously.
"As a Domestics man," Weems added. Creally tried not
to let his expression change as Weems glanced up. "The
promotion. It's going to be next month. During the awards
ceremony. Plan on being there."
"You can count on that," said Creally, letting a smile
grow on his face and wondering if Weems was again play-
ing head games with him.
Creally stood at the door of the fifth-level dwelling,
holding his memex badge. From the baffled looks on the
couple's faces, he knew that the abuse charges against
them were spurious.
"It's just routine."
The man and woman exchanged worried glances. In the
living room, the little boy-spring who had been sitting at
his hololessons turned to watch Creally.
spell woolly. you are not concentrating. try
now. i am waiting. spell woolly . . .
"It's just a spot check. We like to take the springs out of
the dwelling in order to talk to them. I'm just going to take
him for a little outing."
The mother looked searchingly into Creally's face. She
was a Nearly Perfect, living in a Perfect neighborhood, and
the dark lines of worry under her eyes told Creally every-
thing. As much as he hated to do it, he needed the spring
for a cover.
"You will bring him back?" she asked, the boy-spring
appearing at the port between his parents' legs, looking up
uncertainly with his big B-5 eyes.
"Of course. In a couple of hours," he said, holding out
an authoritative hand to the boy-spring, who obediently
accepted it.
"Where are we going?" ventured the spring when they
got into the transport capsule.

176
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
"We're going to have some fun."
"Oh, good," said the boy-spring, perking up. "We gonna
go shopping?"
"No, even better than that. We're going to the mu-
seum," said Creally with a smile, and the spring gave him
a blank look.
"I don't want to make you nervous, but things are be-
ginning to unravel," said Creally in a low voice as they
walked barefoot through a pagoda. An attendant, posted
by the door to make sure visitors removed their boots,
seemed to be watching them. Creally and Wendy had the
boy-spring between them, each by a hand and, with Wendy
bronzed, clad in a fresh skin, and doing her Perfect walk,
they looked like an ordinary Creatorian family having an
outing at the museum.
"I'm not a worrier. You know that."
"Hey, I'm getting hungry." The boy-spring tugged on
their hands. "How's about some candyplank? My mommy
always buys me candyplank when we're having fun."
"Little boy-springs are not supposed to fib," said
Creally.
"I'm not fibbing," he nodded his head seriously. "And
I'm not a little boy-spring. I'm a big spring!"
"Well, how's about something nourishing?"
The kid shrugged.
Returning to the temple entrance, they put on their
boots and headed toward the restaurant. When they were
seated and the boy-spring was occupied, clutching a big
mug of broth to his face with both hands, Creally told
Wendy about Weems and the High Alert.
"Everybody's talking. I'm sure they suspect something.
It's beginning to fall apart. I don't think I can keep coming
to the museum for much longer. If they don't actually
have anything solid on me, they soon will. We have to get
out," he whispered.
"You don't have to convince me."

PERFECT PEOPLE
177
"And we've got to get out as quickly as possible," said
Creally as his eyes roved about the restaurant. Two other
families sat at neighboring tables, both seemingly engaged
in conversation. Beyond them sat a Tox by himself, his
head resting on the table, apparently dozing. The Tox
made Creally edgy. He knew that sometimes they were
used as spies or that P.M.'s disguised themselves as Zeroes
or Toxes. This one, Creally was sure from the look of his
boots, couldn't be a P.M. The boots were too old, too au-
thentically worn. Creally took out a crumpled wrapper
with some scribbles on it and held it in the palm of his
hand.
"There's a couple of small transports that regularly go
out to the Indian subcontinent," he said, speaking rapidly
in a hushed voice. "The next one leaves tomorrow, but it's
already filled and only goes to the northern part of the
continent. There's another, a day after that. It goes pretty
close to where I think we want to go. There was one posi-
tion left on it and I took it. I think I can figure a way to
bump someone and get another."
"Two days," Wendy whispered. She looked excited.
"Yeah. Two days. Two lousy days." He watched the
boy-spring put down his mug, revealing a mouth encircled
in green.
"What's in two days?" asked the spring.
"Here, let me get you some candyplank," said Creally,
getting up.
"Oh, great," said the spring, following him to the
counter.
When they got back, Creally picked up where he had
left off, his eyes still sweeping the tables around them.
"We're going to need a running start. I'll have to try to
line up a craft on the other end. And we need enough
plank to give us a fighting chance."
"And tools," Wendy chimed in. "We'll have to be able to
cultivate and hunt and build ourselves some shelter."

178
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"That's right. Tools," whispered Creally, who had never
built anything in his life.
"The tools will be easy to get," she said.
"Where?"
"Here."
"Of course!" He smiled, brightening. Together they had
a chance. "You'd better collect tonight the things you
think we'll need. Absolutely need. And make sure it's com-
pact." He was thinking of the tools he had found in the
delta, tried to imagine himself chopping a tree, building a
structure for a tent.
"Hatchets. Small shovels. Maybe a hammer."
"Yes, yes," he said. The boy-spring's hands and mouth
were sticky and Creally absently wiped them with a damp-
ened napkin. "I've already got a lot of plank," he said
under his breath.
"How?"
"Went on a shopping spree early this morning." He
wiped his own hands. "Nearly cleaned out a whole store,"
Creally laughed, a heady sense of excitement building in
him.
"How will we get all that stuff to the suborb station?"
"I've thought of that. There's an empty dwelling up on
the first level of Nu, just under the suborb station. They
raided it last night for intoxicants. Some time today I'm
going to try to move all the plank I've got hidden up in the
P.M. storage room over to that dwelling."
"You really mean it, don't you? We're really leaving."
"Absolutely."
"Together?"
"Together," Creally repeated, looking her deep in the
eyes. He could barely control the urge to reach out and
touch her, take her in his arms. If only he could be alone
with her. Two days. Two lousy days.
"Hey, what are you always whispering about?" asked
the boy-spring, looking up at them with his big eyes.
"Finish up your soup. There's some left," Creally said,

PERFECT PEOPLE
179
tipping the mug. "Come on, drink up. We've got to get you
back to your hololessons."
"But we just came!"
"It's late. Your mommy and daddy are waiting for you."
The boy-spring pouted.
"They'll bring you next time." Creally held out his hand
and, mechanically, the little spring took it.
"Cases," he said as they were leaving. "I've got tons of
cases. If I don't look like I'm keeping up with them,
Weems will know something's up. Oh, how I wish I had
more time with you," he looked at her hungrily.
"You will," she said. "Plenty of time."
That same evening, moments before it was about to close,
Creally slipped into the museum. When he entered her
tent, Wendy was startled to see him.
"You're back?"
"I couldn't stay away," he whispered. "I had to tell you
the good news. We're on the suborb. I've got the two posi-
tions. That and a craft lined up on the other end."
"But—but isn't it dangerous coming back here again?"
"It's okay. I'm using safe routes. I'm still riding a low
epsilon. I checked."
"But they're closing now."
"I'm staying the night," he said, taking Wendy in his
arms and holding her tightly. "It drove me crazy before
35

180
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
being so close but not being able to touch you." Creally
had a harried look. "I had to be alone with you."
"But what about Veena? Are you sure it's all right?"
"Don't worry. I've taken care of it. It won't be the first
time a man hasn't come home to his mate."
"I just don't want anything to go wrong."
"It won't. We're as good as out." He pulled her closer,
clung tightly to her, kissed her.
She kissed him back, then suddenly went rigid. Outside
on the walkway there were footsteps, and they stood in
each other's arms, holding their breath.
"It's okay now." She relaxed when they had passed.
museum is now closed. final call before all
ports are sealed. attendants stand clear. exits
sealing.
There was a rush of air and Creally could hear the ports
slamming shut on all ends. Outside their tent, the aborigi-
nes suddenly froze in the midst of their actions. The
women stopped stitching, stopped beating their maize and
stretching their hides. The warriors whose busy hands had
worked all day on their arrowheads fell into an eerie, sus-
pended motionlessness. The raucous noise of birds that
had drifted over from the rain forest ceased and the only
sound that remained came from the hissing jets of the
camp fire that continued to burn. In the silence Creally
relaxed.
"Hi," he said, and the intense look on his face was re-
placed by a softening smile.
"Hi," she responded with a kiss. "Looks like you're
staying whether you want to or not."
"Oh, C., you feel good," he said, running his hands up
and down her back. Burying his face in the crook of her
neck, he inhaled deeply, taking in her strange, musky hu-
man smell.
The sun was in its setting mode, lying half buried on the
horizon, a few stringy clouds burning red in the west. The
warm orange glow lit the side of the tent as they remained

PERFECT PEOPLE
181
locked together. Slipping free, Wendy spread a hide on the
floor and, taking out her stash of fruit and plank, silently
prepared a meal.
"You want me to heat up the plank?" she asked as he
took a sip from a capsule. "I could sneak out to the fire
and—"
"No, no, it's fine," he said, swallowing. "Excellent, in
fact." He bit into a pear-shaped fruit. "What's this?" he
asked as some juice dribbled down his chin.
"A pear," she said.
"Yeah, that's right!" he laughed. "Mmmmm, it's good.
Think of it." He held out the piece of fruit. "This is the
kind of stuff we're going to be living on."
"If we're lucky."
It was now dark and the sound of footsteps returned.
Creally crawled over to the entrance flap of the cone and
peered out. In the moonlit dimness he couid see men mov-
ing up and down the paths of the neighboring exhibits,
lights on their heads, the beams erratically piercing the
museum night as the men bent and stretched, picking up
pieces of litter and putting them into the bulky sacks slung
over their shoulders.
"You know—" Wendy started to speak, and Creally held
up a warning hand.
One of the janitors came near. Gingerly he stepped onto
the grass. He walked toward the tent, his light sweeping
across the entrance. He paused in front of it, stooped, and
picked up a candy wrapper that had blown off the path. In
the flickering firelight Creally could now make out his
face. His features seemed drawn and dull, his eyes languid.
Though not quite a Zero, he seemed little more, and
Creally again felt an inexplicable pang.
Soon the museum was empty of the cleanup crew, and
all Creally could hear were the chirps and rustling move-
ments of nocturnal insects, just as he had heard at the lake
bed. They were living, actually real.
"You know," Wendy said later, picking up her thought

182
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
as they sat together on the pile of hides that was her bed,
"if you close your eyes, you can almost imagine that we've
made it, that we're already outside and free.."
"Funny, I was thinking just the same thing." Leaning
back and cradling his head in his arms, Creally listened to
the competing chitter of a pair of crickets. He thought he
heard a fly buzzing against the outside surface of the cone.
"But it'll be even better than this," she said, looking
down at him. "You'll see."
"I still can't quite imagine myself digging in the dirt and
planting things. And then eating them," he laughed.
"Oh, it's exciting to plant a seed and watch it grow. My
father used to spend hours in our garden. He loved to
experiment, trying to grow all kinds of vegetables. And my
mother, after she finished her work every afternoon, she'd
come and help him pull weeds and cultivate around the
plants. Sometimes I would find myself standing at a dis-
tance watching them work together. It was kind of beauti-
ful to see. For all the work, the garden didn't give us very
much, but what it did produce was great. Like we got these
tomatoes that tasted incredible. They were both sweet and
sour at the same time and when you took a bite, the juice
would just shoot out and dribble down your chin."
"I know," he said.
"You do?"
"I think I tried one of them," he admitted guiltily.
Silence.
"I just wonder," he said a little later.
"What?"
"Wonder if I'll be able to do all the work. Plant things.
Build a place for us where we can live. I'm not really used
to that kind of work. The only thing I've ever used my
hands for is punching through to the Mainframe. I'm a
P.M., not a farmer. And I don't think you need a P.M. out
there on the surface," he smiled. "To tell you the truth, I
don't even know how to make a fire."
"Don't worry. You'll be okay, Creally. And what you

PERFECT PEOPLE
183
don't know, I'll show you. My father and mother taught
me everything. I can even hunt. I'm pretty good at it."
In the darkness cast by the artificial night of the mu-
seum, the two continued to plan the future, their sense of
anticipation heightened. Everything for the escape seemed
set. Creally had the vouchers ready and waiting for them
when they boarded the suborb. Thanks to Weems's per-
sonal account, the P.M. vehicle Creally had lined up on
the other end would be a modern, fast craft. It would have
a long range and be loaded with fuel. More than enough to
make it to the southern tip of the continent where they
would set up camp and begin their new life. He had done
some research today, he eagerly explained. Even if they
didn't hook up immediately with the other tribe, things
would go well. From satellite images, he had discovered a
small area that looked like it had natural vegetation—
which probably meant water, too. Once they got away
from the suborb on the other end, they'd be safe. It was a
big world out there, and they'd never be found.
"Just keep your fingers crossed. Everything's got to
mesh. We've got to get our baggage on the suborb without
raising any suspicions. We've got to—" He stopped, then
self-consciously laughed at himself. "I haven't been this
excited in years," confessed Creally. "I must sound like an
idiot."
"No, it's fun to see you like this. I like it when you're
happy."
"Yeah, but look how much I've talked." He held open
the tent flap and squinted in the rising sun. "Why, it's
already morning again," he joked.
Wendy laughed and kissed him. "Come on, let's go for a
walk," she said, getting up. And together they wandered
out through a morning mist being burned off by the sun.
Though the waves had stopped crashing, the little bit of
ocean in the exhibit still gave it a pungent, salty smell.
They strolled through the quiet marsh, climbed the para-
pets of the castle, and later returned to the tent as the sun

184
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
was again setting. As they sprawled on the pile of hides,
Creally could feel a heightened sense of expectation, a
sense of anticipation and inevitability. Getting up on an
elbow, he looked at Wendy long and hard. He stroked her
face. She took his hand, held it against her cheek, sidled up
close to him and pulled his head down to hers. Their eyes
closed. His tongue met hers, touched, darted, a shock of
electricity passing through their bodies. Instinctively he
pressed himself against her, and she could feel him
through the skin, hard and anxious. He reached for her
breast, then stopped.
"What's the matter?" she whispered as he pulled away.
He sat up and looked at her. Suddenly, faced with his
fantasies turned to a reality, he felt unsure. He wanted to
explain how, despite all that had transpired, he was still a
conventional man, the mores of his people deeply in-
grained.
"You feel guilty? Is that it?" she asked, putting together
what she had gleaned from the unspoken.
Creally shook his head. He thought about his old days
in Vice, when he was still a rookie, how he had had people
detained for bodily sex, arrested and probably zeroed out.
And here he was . . . Here he was . . . His hand went
out again. Moved from her shoulder to her breast. She
slipped out of the top of her skin with a natural ease. Al-
most instinctively he took her nipple into his mouth, let his
tongue study its surface as it hardened between his lips.
Her breathing quickened. He pressed his pelvis against
hers and his hips began to move, undulate, unwittingly,
involuntarily, without a flanker to urge him on. His hands
stroked the length of her torso, explored her long waist,
her muscular legs, came to rest between them where he
could feel the growth of new hair pressing upward against
his fingers, bristling and erect. Her hips now, too, were
moving, back and forth against his hands, flankerless and
free, and from deep within her he could hear a low, primal
growl that went through his ears and peeled away all the

PERFECT PEOPLE
185
layers of learned behavior until he was sliding her skin off,
looking down on the bright gash between her legs that
moved in and out of his field of hungry vision. And she
was helping him. Helping him with her eyes closed. Help-
ing him out of his skin, pulling him down upon her, crying
in his ears, drowning out all the sounds of the insects and
the gas jets, the death and misery and fear that they had
both seen. In a single loud burst she screamed, concentric
waves of pleasure, peaks and troughs, radiating across her
belly and tripping his nerves, her cry flashing in his mind
and causing his groin to contract with a violent spasm,
then spasms, teetering between pain and pleasure. And he
grunted. A deep, elemental grunt that traveled through the
tent and into the museum, a groan that wafted through
forest and jungle. Satiated, he collapsed at her side, col-
lapsed and slept in a bath of their mingled sweat, slept in
her arms.
36
I	
Creally opened his eyes. She was awake and looking at
him. For a long time he lay next to her, wordless and
spent, awed and content. "Holy C.!" he exclaimed finally
breaking the silence.
Wendy laughed. Running her hand over his face, she
traced his brow and cheeks and chin, wiping away the last
remnants of sweat. "You were nearly perfect," she teased.
"You weren't so bad yourself," he chuckled, and when
he caught her glancing down at his groin, he knew what

186
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
she was thinking—or suspected he did. "It works, doesn't
it?"
"Oh, it isn't the size that matters." She reached down
and playfully touched him. His penis was limp and smaller
than ever.
"Consider yourself lucky I'm not a Perfect," he joked,
feeling himself grow again under her touch.
"It wouldn't matter to me. I would still love you. It's
you I love. The whole of you. Not this."
Creally kissed her, not hungrily this time, but with ten-
derness. "You know, we could have springs when we get
out of here." He stroked her cheek. "We might even have
made one right now. Bodily. Think of it, you might have
my spring in you, growing this very instant."
"Our spring."
"Yes. Our spring," he said, and the words sounded good
to his ears, had a ring of authenticity to them that dispelled
all his misgivings and told him that everything he had
done since meeting Wendy had been right and moral. Then
he remembered the massacre. The scene was still as vivid
in his mind as ever. "There's something I have to tell you.
Something you should know. I didn't know how to tell you
this but—" He tried to move away from her, distance him-
self, but she held on to him. "Your family," he said finally.
"They died because of me. I killed them."
"Don't be silly," she said without a moment's hesitation.
"You couldn't kill anyone. You're not capable of it."
"And what do you think I was doing there at the
cones?"
"You think I haven't thought about that?"
"But you never asked? You don't know what hap-
pened."
"I know enough about you not to have to ask."
"They died because I reported them," he blurted out. "I
reported them because I found them. And I found them
because I was stubborn and stupid and—"

PERFECT PEOPLE
187
"Ssssh," she said, placing her fingertips on his lips. "It's
not your fault. I'm sure of that."
"I wish I was."
"It was just God's way."
"God?" he said, incredulous.
"The One who started all this."
He looked at her.
"The One who made the Earth and the stars. The—
you're not going to tell me it was the Creator, are you?"
"No, no. Of course not."
"Then who?"
"I don't know. No one. I've always thought it came
about by randomness, molecular chance, some nitrogen, a
spark, the first traces of ammonia, an amino acid, primitive
life."
Wendy let it slide. Later, however, when they were out
wandering naked through the deserted rain forest, she re-
turned to the subject.
"And all this happened by chance, huh?" She stretched
out her arms as if to enclose the palms and lianas, mosses
and lichens and wild orchids. He looked at her, his eyes
fleeting across her breast, the nipples starkly roseate
against the muted green of the undergrowth. It was beauti-
ful. Randomness? "Do you think that a flower or a bird or
a tree"—she motioned around her—"something that com-
plicated, just happened? By accident?"
"I find it hard to believe this was all planned by someone
or something. Because, if it was, that would mean that all
the madness and insanity of man was planned. All the
centuries of slaughter. All the wars. The Great War. The
senseless maiming and mass murder, the near extinction of
the planet."
She didn't respond, and Creally realized that, despite
loving one another, there was a chasm between them that
would have to be bridged if they were to spend a life to-
gether. It was not just a question of randomness versus
God. It was something else. But what?

188
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
As they padded through the surroundings of damp ferns
and gnarled trees, Wendy began to hum to herself. Listen-
ing to her soft, lilting voice, Creally felt it melting into his
soul, soaking into the very marrow of his bones, the sound
conjuring images of other eons. When she stopped, it was
as if something was drastically missing.
"Don't stop. Sing some more. I like it." She began again,
this time fitting words to her melody, singing to him of
rivers swollen and muddy from the rains, of butterflies
mating in a shaft of sunlight, of glistening blossoms wet
with droplets of dew—her gentle voice weaving in his
mind a tapestry that seemed to mesh with a pattern of
experience that lay hidden deep within the very molecular
chains that were the memory of his soul. And with all his
powers, Creally concentrated to listen, understand, com-
prehend the secret that was his, theirs, humanity's. From
songs that told of early earth, Wendy moved into a eulogic,
melancholy ballad.
"We walked across the dying land
Pursued and scattered like grains of sand
Our people were lost
Uncountable the cost
The— "
"The War," Creally suddenly interrupted. "The Great
War."
She looked at him and there was an odd smile on her
face.
"There never was a Great War, was there?"
"No," she said quietly.
"And there was no gathering up of survivors?"
"No."
"Lies. All lies."
"Yes."
"But the radioactivity?" he uttered, and suddenly it hit
him. Zraak, who had laughed at the radiation skin, had

PERFECT PEOPLE
189
known all along. It didn't exist. It was as ephemeral as the
Creator Himself.
"No Great War," she said, "not as my people tell it. Just
little rotten ones."
"But the climate? If not the bombs then . . . ?"
And again Wendy began to sing, her face radiant with
conviction.
"What they did to our planet once pure and strong,
They did to its people, though its coming was long.
Where once food was for all, the soils rich and dark
They choked the air, made the Earth sandy and stark."
Creally's mind was racing. "We walked ... we walked
. . ."he tried to remember her song, the one she had sung
in the storage room. "Sing it. Please," he urged.
"We walked across the dying land," she began.
"Pursued and scattered like grains of sand," he com-
pleted the line. "The Creator?"
"No, we called him Dor the Warrior."
"He killed, then?"
"With his army of henchmen. He picked and chose.
Captured those he wanted. Murdered the rest. A few es-
caped. My forefathers. They assembled near the ancient
lakes. My family is—was—the children of children of sur-
vivors, seven and eight generations removed."
"And the ones the first Creator took?" Creally asked.
"He took them for their genetic material?"
"Worse, he took them as slaves. They were taken across
the continents by forced march. Clubbed and beaten.
Packed into airless transports for weeks at a time without
food or water. The strongest were those who, when the
doors were opened, could stagger out among the corpses.
Those were the 'volunteers' who built your first Alpha sec-
tor. He took them for their cells. For their cells and their
labor. The women, the good-looking ones, were kept for

190
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
the pleasure of Dor and his henchmen. Dor, your Creator
of Creators, father of Creatoria."
"Holy plooma," muttered Creally, grasping for words.
The chasm. He had found it and bridged it. He knew the
truth—knew it was the truth.
"And now you understand why I tried to leave you.
Before, you never really questioned, never wondered. If I
had just told you all this, you wouldn't have believed me."
"But I would have."
"Maybe, but it would have been with your mind, not
your heart."
"It's with my heart all right," he said, and felt weighing
upon him the burden of a whole society built on mendacity
and murder.
Once again the sun in the museum was finishing its cy-
cle, setting.
"I feel like I've been here with you for a week," he said,
trying to make light though his thoughts still weighed
upon him.
"No." She pressed her bare flesh against his, her skin
cool and sweet, soft and yielding. "No," she joked, "only
four days."
And he kissed her, kissed her again and again. He made
love to Wendy and kissed her a thousand times, as if he
could compensate for a life lost.
When he left in the morning, the real morning, the
Creatorian morning, he had a small pick and shovel hid-
den on him. The first tools for their new life, an Earth life.
Another survivor had been added, another one who knew
the truth.

"Where in C.'s name have you been?" asked Veena when
she finally got Creally on the holocon.
"I've been in and out of the office all morning."
"No, I mean last night!" She looked and sounded
peeved.
"I'm sorry. But I left you a message."
"On Creation Night of all nights! What were you do-
ing?"
"I was working on a special case."
"What case?"
"What is this, an interrogation? You know I can't talk
about everything I do."
"Creally, where were you?"
"Out."
"Is this another one of your self-chosen cases? Does
Weems know about it?" As if she had to ask.
"Look, I've been running my ass off all morning. We've
had a rash of domestics—"
"Creally—"
"Oh, by the way." He reached into his kit and held up a
brightly colored package. "I know this is a little late. But,
as they say, better late than—•"
"You didn't forget." Veena's frown turned into a smile.
"No, I didn't forget. Happy belated Creation Day." He
forced a smile and thought, One day, one more long day to
go.
37,

192
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
* * *
Things really were hectic. The Domestic Squad had
been hit with a rash of new cases. It was as if there were a
spreading contagion in the recycled air of Creatoria. A
mother in Gamma had brutally bludgeoned to death her
six-month-old spring. The kid had been sick, up all night
crying. Instead of taking it to a soma station, she let it
scream, then silenced it. A pair of mates in Chi, a seventh-
level Perfect couple no less, had gotten into a furious row.
The thirty-year-old male had taken both springs and disap-
peared, threatening to kill them. Everybody on the Domes-
tic Squad had been out searching for leads. Even with the
system on High Alert, the Perfect was outsmarting the
ports. Or he was staying put. Or he had already killed the
children and himself.
Creally was in and out of the P.M. complex all morning.
Every time he tried to get into Weems's office to check on
his epsilon, the chief was in there. Weems even had his
lunch sent in.
In the early afternoon, there were two more strange
cases. A pair of mates in Rho sector had allegedly kept
their spring chained in a closet for a month as punishment.
An adolescent in Beta had tried to hang himself. Creally
assigned the Rho sector case to Moorty and took the Beta
one himself since it was near the museum. When he got to
the Beta sector dwelling, the spring had already been
moved for treatment to a soma station, and Creally took
the opportunity to run back over to Wendy.
Passing through the museum entrance and plaza, his
dispatch button squawking out new cases that were flood-
ing in by the minute, Creally headed straight for the cones.
In the middle of the rain forest he ran into Sneeling.
"Funny meeting you here," he said, barely able to mask
his shock.
Sneeling, who didn't look the least surprised, laughed
with his high-pitched, birdlike cackle. "I was just going to
say the same thing. What are you doing here?"

PERFECT PEOPLE
193
Creally quickly collected himself. "Oh, I was just in the
neighborhood and thought I'd come over here for a lunch
break."
"Same here. I didn't know you were a museum goer."
Sneeling searched his face.
"Oh"—Creally shrugged—"I like to pop over here
whenever I have a chance."
"Small world," said Sneeling, turning to watch a buz-
zard hunkering down on a nearby branch. "Well, I've al-
ways been a big museum buff. I'd come here every day if I
could," he laughed again. The laugh set Creally's hair on
end.
Creally's immediate instinct was to move as far away
from Wendy as possible, but he knew it was the worst
thing he could do.
"Tell me," asked Sneeling, "what's your favorite ex-
hibit?"
"Oh, I don't know," Creally answered vaguely. "That's
hard to say."
"Mine's the medieval area. Castles and dungeons have
always fashinated me. My mate accuses me of having a
medieval mind." Again the laugh. "But surely you must
have one favorite?"
"Well ... I suppose the rain forest here." Creally
glanced up into the trees. A monkey was hanging from a
high limb, looking almost as though it were staring down
at them. "This, or maybe the aboriginal exhibit."
"Yes, the aborigines." Sneeling nodded. "That's—that's
just down the walk, isn't it?"
"Yup. Care to join me?" said Creally, taking the initia-
tive. "I was going to take a quick look myself before going
back to Headquarters. We've had some crazy day today."
"So I've heard," Sneeling motioned to the button in his
ear. Turning on the path, he followed alongside Creally.
"A little madness crackling in the air, eh?" he said.
"Not just a little." Creally continued to stroll, his pace
deliberately steady, leisurely.

194
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"What is it that brings people to do such erratic things?"
Sneeling asked philosophically, his hands folded behind his
back as he walked.
"Search me." Creally turned to smile. "You'd better ask
the shrinks if you want an answer. I'm just a lowly P.M.,
trying to keep the peace."
"Lowly," repeated Sneeling as they approached the ab-
original area. "Lowly. A first-rank P.M. and he's talking
about being lowly. I should only be so lowly." Sneeling
grinned and there seemed not an ounce of malevolence in
his expression or voice. Could it just have been coincidence
that brought Sneeling there? Or did they know something?
Suspect something? That afternoon, no matter what, he
had to get into Weems's office. For the moment, however,
he had to play it cool and pray that Wendy wouldn't slip
up.
"It's just around the bend here," said Creally, raising his
voice almost imperceptibly, hoping that it would carry.
"Ah yes, here we are," Sneeling stopped smack in front
of the village of cones. Wendy stood stooped by the fire,
working with the old woman. She had heard them coming
and not even her eyes betrayed her. "Interesting," mut-
tered Sneeling, "very interesting." He nodded sagaciously.
"Isn't it?" agreed Creally.
"That people could live like this"—Sneeling's eyes
swept from left to right across the panorama of cones—"in
cloth-covered dwellings." He looked at one of the war-
riors.. "Murdering animals and eating their flesh and
bones."
Creally nodded his assent.
"Killing each other. Eating off the Earth like animals."
Creally nodded again. "Primitive creatures," he added
for good measure.
Sneeling was now looking at the women by the fire.
Studying them. Creally clasped his hands together to keep
them from shaking. Though he tried to control himself, he

PERFECT PEOPLE
195
could feel his heart thunder and he worried that he was
flushing.
"I can understand your fashination with cones," said
Sneeling. Creally looked squarely at him. Sneeling was still
staring at the two women. "After all, you were the one
who discovered them." He now slowly turned to look at
Creally. "The Hairy Ones. And that's what made you
what you are today. Or will be. A lowly rank-one." Sneel-
ing winked playfully, then again turned back to the two
women. "Oh, she's calling you," he said suddenly.
"Huh?" Creally's mouth opened.
"She's calling for you," he repeated.
"Who?"
"Moorty." Sneeling tapped the button in his ear. "Isn't
yours on?"
"Oh. Yeah." Creally forced a laugh, dry and hoarse. It
was Moorty. She was calling into the dispatcher, request-
ing permission to make a direct transmission to Creally.
"What's up?" asked Creally, his eyes distractedly shift-
ing between Sneeling and Wendy.
"I'm not sure what to do," said Moorty. It was a proce-
dural question. There was no hard evidence, no marks on
the spring who w,as supposed to have been chained. No
corroboration whatsoever from witnesses. The case
smelled rotten. She was loath to intercede where she might
be wrong, yet fearful of leaving behind a spring who might
be tortured.
"I'll be right over," said Creally, releasing the button.
"Well, the usual plooma," he said to Sneeling, relieved for
the excuse. "Got to run," he said.
"Well, don't kill yourself," Sneeling smiled, waving.
Creally rushed back along the path. When he got
around the curve at the beginning of the rain forest, he
stopped and peered back through the trees at Sneeling. He
was still standing there in front of the cones, his hands
studiously tucked behind his back. Creally walked farther
along the path, then turned again. Sneeling was moving

196
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
now. Moving down the exhibit. Down past the cones. The
office, Creally thought. He just had to get into Weems's
office. If they had even the vaguest suspicions, he would
have to move Wendy immediately. One more day. One
more lousy day until the suborb boosted off and they were
free. It loomed like an eternity. Rushing back to the tube
station, Creally took the first capsule over to Moorty in
Rho sector. As much as he craved to, he could not go
directly back to the office, not risk any break in routine
that might give Sneeling the contradiction he was looking
for. But what in C.'s name was that miserable flanker do-
ing in the museum?
What an exasperating day! Even the lousy tube system was
fouled up. He had already wasted a quarter of an hour
trying to get over to inner Rho. Resisting the urge to throw
his capsule into emergency mode, Creally sweated it out
another ten long minutes. When he finally reached
Moorty, he perfunctorily checked out the spring. She had
been right. No marks. No bruises. The kid seemed pale
and fragile, but not ill. Though he felt concerned about the
spring, he knew he was as good as out of Creatoria. Noth-
ing really mattered anymore—except getting out.
"Look, just keep them under surveillance. Pop a visit on
them late tonight," he said, and hurried back to the tube
station
38

PERFECT PEOPLE
197
Again the endless wait in the tubes; Creally sat shunted
off on a spur.
"Come on. Come on, you flanker!" he railed and impa-
tiently pounded his fists on the capsule dash.
Finally the capsule lurched ahead toward an express ra-
dial. An instant later it shunted itself off onto another spur.
What the flank was going on with that blasted Mainframe?
Moving again. This time along a subsidiary radial. "C.
almighty! Now I get the scenic route!"
It was stop and go. Stop and go. He was moving out of
Rho, crossing the Lambda boundary. Finally, finally, the
government area station.
Taking an ascendor up to level three of the P.M. com-
plex, Creally headed straight to Weems's office. Turning a
sharp corner in the corridor, he nearly bumped right into
Nuudey.
"Oh, Creally," she smiled brightly. "I was just looking
for you. Hey, you look harried. What's up?"
"Just an insane day. Don't ask," he said, catching his
breath and trying to explain away his appearance. From
out of the corner of his eye he could see that Weems's office
was empty.
"There's something neat I gotta show you—"
"Sure, sure. But not now," he said distractedly. "I'm
just in the middle of something and—"
"Oh, I understand." She backed off. "I'll get you later,"
she said, moving down the hall with a wave. "It was noth-
ing really important. Just an artifact someone brought in."
"A what?" he called after her.
"An artifact. Some kind of plasticized—"
Creally turned on his heels and charged after her.
"Where is it?"
"It's in the lab. 1 knew how interested you are in old
things—" He already had her by the arm and was propel-
ling her down the hall. "Creally, what's with you?" she
laughed.

198
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
When they got to the lab, Nuudey went over to the far
bench.
"This thing looked kind of old, and when I did some
preliminary dating on it—■" She handed Creally the doll.
Wendy's doll. "It checked out. It's a good two hundred,
maybe—"
"Where'd you get this?" The doll trembled in his hands.
"They brought it in. Found it, I think, in one of the
museums. But it doesn't belong to any of the collections
and—"
"When?"
"When what?"
"When did they bring it in?"
"Just a little while ago."
"Who?"
"What's going on, Creally? You scare me."
"Who? Who?"
"The guys from Vice."
Then Creally understood. Sneeling. It wasn't coinci-
dence. And the tube system. Its sluggishness. It wasn't a
Mainframe malfunction. Someone was moving in the
emergency mode. No. The delay had been too long. It had
to be more than one. While he had been sitting there, stuck
on a spur, groups of people, probably P.M.'s, were moving
across Creatoria.
"Creally! Come back here!" Nuudey shouted after him
as he raced down the corridor, the doll in his hand. "You
can't take that. It's not mine. We need it for a case.
Creally!" she called in exasperation. "Oh, Creally!"
Shooting across the core of Creatoria, his capsule usurp-
ing full emergency status, Creally's mind was racing. Did
they have Wendy or just her doll? Glancing at the battered
doll in his hand, he tried to remember where he had last
seen it. The storage room. Coming back from the suborb
station. Propped up in the tent against a rolled fur. Did she
have it with her last night when they walked around? Was

PERFECT PEOPLE
199
it found in the cone or somewhere else? Did he still have
time, or was it all over?
As it pulled into the station, Creally leapt from the mov-
ing capsule. Tearing along the platform, he raced toward
the museum. When the entrance came in sight, he stopped
short. A half-dozen or more emergency vehicles stood
parked in hasty, skewed lines, their strobes flashing. The
place was virtually crawling with P.M.'s. The front of the
museum was cordoned off, P.M.'s posted at every turnstile
and exit. Equipment was being unloaded from the vehicles,
portable sniffers and scanners, while visitors and atten-
dants were hurriedly being escorted out of the museum.
"Closing early," he heard a P.M. explain politely to a
young female Perfect attempting to enter. "There's been a
poisonous gas leak. No one's allowed in."
A Tox, dragged out on wobbly feet by a pair of P.M.'s,
gaped in fear at the dozens of flashing lights.
Controlling his breathing, Creally ambled over to the
turnstile where a young rookie from Vice was stationed.
"Oh, hello, sir," the rookie greeted him. "You assigned
here too?"
Creally smiled and nodded. "How're things going?"
"Oh, fine, sir. Everything's under control." He stepped
aside to let Creally pass.
Creally strode directly into the museum, his eyes quickly
scanning the scene. The central plaza was a hive of activ-
ity. A crowd of uniformed P.M.'s stood around an officer
issuing orders, the men getting their assignments and
breaking off into teams that fanned out along the path-
ways. The men were big and husky and, though Creally
was sure he had never seen them before, they reminded
him of the ones from the delta massacre. And Weems. He
was there, too, standing in a huddle with Sneeling and two
high-level P.M.'s from Vice, Sneeling excitedly waving his
arms.
Unnoticed, Creally marched along on a path behind a
trio of jackbooted P.M.'s, then slipped off the walk.

200
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
Crouching low, he cut around the meadow of high grass
surrounding the castle. Then he was trotting, bursting into
a run, heading for the deep cover of the rain forest. In the
jungle, he thrashed his way through the tangle of vines,
weaving through the mechanical birds populating the for-
est floor. When he came to the edge where the rain forest
merged with the aboriginal area, he stopped and, hidden in
a thicket, scanned the village of cones. There were no
P.M.'s there yet. The old Tox he had caught with tobacco
was sitting slumped on his usual bench, dozing. And there
was Wendy. She was at the fire, pretending to labor like the
other aborigines, panic etched on her face. Creally tried to
catch her attention by whispering her name, but she didn't
seem to hear above the noise of the gas jets. Picking up a
small stone, he bounced it off the buckskin of her dress.
She looked up, startled, but seeing Creally she smiled, a
smile of desperate relief. He signaled her to come. She
turned and started toward him. The Tox suddenly lifted
his head. Creally held up his hand for her to stop, tried to
wave her back to the fire, but it was too late. The Tox
jumped abruptly to his feet.
"There she is!" he bellowed, his voice resounding
through the museum, carrying over the screech of birds,
the chatter of monkeys, the pounding of surf. "There they
are! Two of them!"
Grabbing Wendy's hand, Creally pulled her into the
thicket. And then they were running, ripping blindly
through the ensnarled undergrowth, knocking over birds
and leaving them flapping aimlessly on their backs. Amid
the confusing echoes of crisscrossing shouts, they charged
around the back of the fortress.
"Let's try the main entrance," he said breathlessly. "If I
can get you into the plaza, maybe I can slip you through
with me."
They crept cautiously through the last stretch of high
grass.
"There! There they are!" came new shouts. Through the

PERFECT PEOPLE
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corner of his eye, Creally saw someone lift what looked
like a weapon.
"Quick!" he yanked her back. "There's a workers' exit."
Retracing their path, they made a sharp detour that took
them splashing through the saltwater marsh, then along
the oceanfront, their feet sinking into the loose sand.
"Over there!" A surprised P.M. spotted them.
Another quick detour. Another sharp turn and they
found themselves in the prehistoric exhibit, zigzagging
around the ancient trees, cutting under the belly of a lum-
bering dinosaur and nearly colliding with a pterodactyl
that blindly swooped down from the sky. Charging out of
the exhibit, they dashed past an Oriental emperor presid-
ing over a mass execution, the two leaping through the line
of gleaming axes and outstretched necks.
Nearing the employee exit, they stopped behind a clump
of bushes. Here, too, the port was sealed. In front stood a
line of rugged P.M.'s, long, cylindrical weapons at the
ready, as if expecting them.
"Oh, God," said Wendy, "they've got us boxed in."
Hunched over and fighting to catch his breath, Creally
racked his brain. The place was sealed. If they tried to run
the exits, they didn't have a chance. Their only hope was
to outsmart them.
Wendy whispered something to him.
"Huh?"
"There's a pipe," she repeated. "A big pipe where they
drain out the old water. It's all the way in the back, in the
field behind the castle. Near the pond."
"There're P.M.'s over there. I saw them."
"I know. But . . . but if we could just sneak past them,
we could probably squeeze through the pipe if it's not
full."
Creally looked up. The sun. It was falling. Darkness, he
thought. Another fifteen minutes, maybe. It was their only
chance. Hide out. Buy time. Then make a break for the
pipe.

202
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"The castle. We'll hide there till it's dark." He was
thinking about the sniffers. The trick was to keep the trails
crisscrossing. The more intersecting tracks, the more con-
fused the sniffers, the more time they had. "Here, this
way," he motioned. Turning a wide circle, they cut across
the Oriental court, twice crossing their old spoor. Using
the cover of a high wall, they wove through the Great War
exhibit, circling the enormous silos of poised missiles,
great, noisy clouds of exhaust and vapors swirling out of
the bunkers. At opposite ends of the scene stood two old
men in front of a panel of buttons. As they skirted a silo,
the roar suddenly died. The fumes and vapors began to
dissipate as the museum fell ominously still. They stopped
in their tracks, hugging the wall of the silo. Wendy's head
swung from side to side. Creally held his breath. Not a
sound. No booted feet on the walkways. No birds. No surf.
Only their hearts pounding in their ears.
Quietly they turned and crept out of the exhibit. Moving
stealthily on the balls of their feet, eyes searching, ears
straining for the slightest sound, they reached the edge of
the meadow at the side of the castle. Wading through the
deep grass, the sharp blades swishing noisily against them,
they hurried past the flanks of rigid horses. Above their
heads hung swords, held by mounted knights, frozen in
midswing.
At the drawbridge, Creally stopped and turned to check
behind them. There was no one. Nothing. Eerie silence.
Not even the insects were chirping. The sun, shifting to a
fiery red, was now just below the parapets. It seemed to be
taking forever. If Weems or one of the hot shots was smart
enough to stop it before it went down, they were finished.
Gingerly they walked over the wooden drawbridge, their
footsteps echoing hollowly in the turgid moat below. En-
tering the courtyard, they chose a side entrance, opened
the heavy wooden door, and slipped in. Inside it was black
and cool and moldy.
"Let's go this way," Creally whispered, his voice reso-

PERFECT PEOPLE
203
nating in the cavernous stairwell. They climbed a flight,
came to a landing, entered a room with big windows. It
held a display of body armor. "No, no," said Creally, eye-
ing the room. It was too vulnerable. A dead end. Only one
way in and not a single exit except a sealed window.
Backtracking to the stairs, they climbed to the top, took
two sharp turns along a narrow, dark corridor, then came
to a set of three rooms. Creally checked out the one on the
left. It was a high-ceilinged banquet hall with only a few,
small leaded windows. In the fiery half-light, polished
weapons mounted on the wall gleamed like burning stars
pitted against a black universe. Swords and maces and
cudgels and clubs. The room had three exits.
"It looks okay," he said, taking her by the shoulder and
leading her into the room. Exhausted, they crumpled to-
gether to the icy stone floor, lay there panting. Creally
pulled her close. She was shivering.
"We'll get out. Don't worry. I've been in worse situa-
tions," he lied.
"It's not you they're after," she said. "It's me. Let me
give myself up. You could still get away—"
"Never!" he said fiercely, pulling himself up into a sit-
ting position. "We're in this together." He was still racking
his brain. Trying to think of another way out ... If he
could hold them off somehow. Or maybe take a hostage.
Yes. Get his hands on a big shot like Weems. Let Weems be
their voucher out. Now, wouldn't that be justice!
From below there suddenly came a sound. A latch pop-
ping. Then the creak of the wooden door down at the
entrance. The two of them sat bolt upright.
"Someone's—"
"Shhh!" said Creally.
Nothing. Then the creak again. The door quietly clos-
ing, the latch clicking shut. Footsteps. Rising to their feet,
they strained to listen.
"There's only one," she whispered in Creally's ear.
He nodded. Waited. Then he could hear the footsteps

204
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
moving up the stairs, one step at a time. Creally tiptoed
out of the room, back to the landing, Wendy pressed be-
hind him. He went to the head of the stairs and listened.
He could make out the footsteps moving into the dead-end
room below, detect the faint but steady whiffing sound of a
sniffer, the distinct scratch of its tube skimming along the
stone floor.
The footsteps doubled back, tracing the route they had
followed to the stairs. Then up. Toward them. Cautiously
mounting one step at a time. Creally signaled for Wendy to
move back into the room. She shook her head vehemently.
The steps were nearing, coming around the curve. He
urged her back into the room with a sharp shove.
Creally jumped clear of their trail and, moving quietly
backward, wedged himself into a small alcove. Pressed
tightly against the stone, he held his breath and watched
the figure approach. The man had a sniffer slung over his
shoulder and a long weapon clutched in his hand. As he
crept along, following Wendy's trail, Creally tensed, pre-
paring to lunge on the man's back. But, when the figure
came just abreast of where Creally stood, it suddenly
wheeled around as if sensing someone hidden.
"Creally!" said Sneeling, shocked at seeing him. When
he spun, the weapon turned with him, pointing right at
Creally's gut.
Behind Sneeling, Wendy suddenly appeared, a heavy
mace raised over her head. Creally opened his mouth to
speak but, before he could utter a word, she brought the
spiked cudgel down, sinking it with a dull thud deep into
the P.M.'s skull. Letting out a grunt, Sneeling fell to his
knees, the sniffer crashing to his side. Staring up at Creally
with a look of disbelief on his face, he gasped, rolled up his
eyes, and then pitched forward.
"Oh, no." Creally groaned, seeing the gray matter ooz-
ing through the bloody shards of skull. "Oh, no!" They
had murdered a man. Killed a P.M.
"Come on, let's get out of here!" cried Wendy as Creally

PERFECT PEOPLE
205
stood transfixed above Sneeling's lifeless body. "There'll be
more coming. Come on!"
In panic, they bolted down the stairs and through the
courtyard. After leaving the drawbridge, they followed the
edge of the moat into the dark woods, behind the fortress.
Hidden behind a tree, a P.M. was standing waiting for
them. Out of the corner of his eye Creally caught a glimpse
of a weapon being lifted. A dot of red light hitting the
buckskin of Wendy's dress.
"This way! No! Turn! Turn!" he called, grabbing her and
pulling her aside as an insectlike projectile came buzzing
toward them. He yanked her behind the trunk of a large
tree and saw the buzzer take a sharp turn, correcting itself,
moving around the trunk in a wide, searching arc. As the
buzzer homed in on her, Wendy tore loose and dashed out
into the open. The buzzer hovered, spotted her, and took
off in pursuit. Creally charged after her, tried to pull her
behind him, but the buzzer kept tricking him, jogging first
to one side, then the other. As Wendy stood momentarily
exposed, the missile came at her in a single swoop, hitting
her dress and burrowing through the buckskin. Creally
ripped off her top, but the buzzer was already moving be-
low the skin, burrowing its way deeper and deeper like a
mechanized maggot. Then there was a small pop, a muffled
explosion, the smell of burned flesh, Wendy's face register-
ing shock. Emitting a short gasp, she spun around and
then collapsed into his arms.
"Oh, Wendy!" Creally cried as he crumpled with her to
the ground. "Wendy! Wendy!" he wailed, seeing her face
twist in pain. Through widened eyes she beseechingly
stared up at him. She tried to speak but all that emerged
was a bloody froth. Tears flooding his vision, he frantically
stroked her head. "Oh, please, no. Don't go!" he pleaded,
oblivious to the hurrying patter of feet around him. Wendy
moved her lips again. He brought his ear close to her
mouth. A gurgling sound issued from her chest. Then
some faint words. He strained to hear.

206
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"Kill him," she whispered.
"Who?"
"Kill him!"
"Kill who?"
"K-k-kill. The. C-Creator," she squeezed the words out
in a bloody retch. Then her eyes rolled up into her head,
her jaw locked, and her body began to convulse.
Aware suddenly of the footsteps closing in, Creally
swept Wendy up into his arms and began to run with her,
amazed at how easy it was, how light she felt, how
Wendy's body almost seemed to float in his arms. And he
was talking to her as the tears streamed down his cheeks.
"We'll make it out," he was saying. "You'll see. There's a
suborb tomorrow morning. We can catch it. I've got all the
food. The tools. Everything's arranged. Everything." He
sobbed, running blindly in the dimness. "We'll be free.
We'll start a new life. An Earth life. There'll be a sun.
Birds singing for us in the trees. And we'll have springs.
Our own. And nothing'll come between us." He wept as a
white-hot jolt suddenly caught him in the spine. "And—
and—" He staggered in his tracks. "And—and—" Wendy
slipped from his arms to a crumpled heap at his feet. The
white flame burned its way up his back, traveling steadily
up into the base of his skull. In an instant a searing white
light was washing over his brain, filling his field of vision,
the all-encompassing light penetrating his very being,
white, white, white, until there was nothing left of him and
he knew he didn't exist.

Whiteness . . .
Silence . . .
Whispers . . .
A distant clatter . . .
A port swishes open . . .
Whispers again . . .
Slowly, tentatively, he lifted the lids of his eyes. A white
light flooded in. He closed them in pain, then opened them
again. Whiteness filled his vision. He blinked. Whispers.
He caught a few words, strange words. "Dangerous . . .
do you think he's still dangerous?" It was a foreign tongue
but he understood it perfectly.
Slowly his senses returned. He realized that he was lying
on his back. The whiteness that he saw was ceiling. He was
in a room. His fingers clumsily reached out to feel about
him. The touch of cool sheets against a soft recliner.
Again the whispers. "He's coming around."
He lowered his eyes. Standing at the foot of the recliner
were two women and a man. His vision doubled, then co-
alesced into a single image, then doubled again. They were
dressed in pale-green skins and, except for that, the room
and everything in it was colorless, white. He tried to lift his
head but couldn't. He attempted to swallow, but his mouth
was dry. He tried to think but reason eluded him. The trio
left, the port sealing behind them, leaving him alone. Un-
able to move, he waited. Waited. Studied the whiteness of
39

208
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
the ceiling. Let his fingertips wander at his side, touching
the sheets.
The port slid open, closed with a swish. An older
woman, dressed in a long, loose gown of white, a white
whimple on her head, appeared in his narrow field of vi-
sion. All he could see of her was her jovial, round face
framed in the white of her headdress. And her hands. They
were small and delicate and pale. Hanging from a long
chain around her neck was a golden helix that gleamed
against her robe.
"And how are we feeling today?" she inquired brightly.
He tried to speak but nothing came out.
"Here we go," she said, bending over and propping him
up on a pillow. She held a straw to his lips and obediently
he sucked at the cool liquid, which eased his confusion.
The woman took away the straw, sat down on the edge
of the recliner, and waited with her hands folded in her
lap.
"My name is Sister Jeetudora," she began, speaking
slowly and distinctly. "I'm your therapist. You can call me
Sister Jeety, if you like," she said with a kind smile.
A look of bewilderment crossed his face.
"Yes, I know," she said compassionately. "You're con-
fused. That's normal."
He looked even more bewildered.
"You've had a breakdown," she explained. "A complete
breakdown." She paused to let it sink in. "You went er-
ratic, then collapsed."
Erratic? Collapsed? He didn't know what she was talk-
ing about and it frightened him.
"No, no, it's nothing so terrible. Happens to the most
Perfect of us."
He again attempted to speak, to ask a question, but all
that came out was a grunt.
"Yes. Yes. I understand. You're in peripheral Eta sector.
In a Therapeutical Reintegration Station. It's called the

PERFECT PEOPLE
209
Mercy of His Beneficence Station Two. We just call it
Mercy Station Two."
He lifted an eyebrow.
"You don't know who you are, do you?"
With effort, he managed a slow, vague turn of his head.
"You don't remember, huh?" Her eyes probed his. "Oh,
dear. Well, we'll just have to start at the beginning, won't
we?"
What beginning?
"Your name is Ylor. Does that help you remember
now?"
He moved his head faintly from side to side. Ylor. Ylor.
He let the name circulate through his mind, hoping it
would come to rest in familiar territory, but it just contin-
ued to loop aimlessly.
"Ylor Guurds," she said. "You were a maintenance
worker before your breakdown. You worked in the utility
corridor in neighboring Theta."
Ylor. Ylor? He was still thinking.
"You were very proficient at your job. Everybody liked
you. You smiled a lot. You were a good, religious man who
worshipped the Creator. Do you remember that?"
He didn't, but something told him to agree and he nod-
ded.
"Good! Excellent! It's only the first day and we're al-
ready making wonderful progress. Oh, I can see you're
going to be a star patient," she bubbled, and her cheeks,
which were heavily bronzed, flushed a happy red below the
surface.
Ylor? Ylor?
She held the straw to his lips. He sucked again, and the
confusion seemed to dissipate.
"It'll all come back slowly. Speech. Walking. But we'll
have to work at it. It's going to require lots of hard work."
Sister Jeety left his side for a moment, then returned
with an object.
"I think it's best we do this as soon as possible," she

210
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
said. "Now, I want you to take a good look." She held up a
mirror.
He looked blankly at the silvered surface. Staring back
at him in the reflection was a middle-aged man, his face
lined, his features haggard. One of his eyes had a tendency
to drift, he noticed, and every time it did, his own vision
would double slightly.
"That's you," she said positively. "You're a very hand-
some Nearly Perfect, aren't you?"
Obediently, he nodded. Ylor, he was thinking.
"Now, I'm going to leave this here." She placed the
mirror on the white table at his side. "And we're going to
let you rest for a bit. Get you all rested up." She gently
lowered his head. "Tomorrow we start your therapy. Now
won't that be nice, Ylor?"
He nodded mutely.
"Soon everything will be back to normal. You'll be back
at work, a healthy, productive member of society."
Looking at the ceiling, he nodded again.
He slept a great deal. When he did, he was subjected to
wild dreams in which he felt himself plummeting down
endless dark shafts, saw himself pursued by unknown be-
ings, experienced a sense of unconsciousness within uncon-
sciousness. Though in his room there was only white, in
his dreams reds and oranges and piercing yellows burned
in his brain. Sleep and wakefulness became confused,
40

PERFECT PEOPLE
211
merging, so that he had no sense of time. He dreamed that
he was awake yet suspected that he was dreaming with his
eyes open. Slowly, slowly he began to feel his senses return,
and with them came a pain in his lower back, a deep,
nagging ache. Then he found he could wiggle a single large
toe, experience the numb, stinging of a leg that had gone to
sleep. The light in his room seemed always to be on. He
tried to concentrate on the chamber, to study it, but
curved and uniformly lit and devoid of color, there was
nothing for his eyes to fasten on—no corners, no shadows.
It was only when he arched his head backward that he
discovered the single source of color in the room. Just be-
hind him and above the bed hung a large, golden helix of
the kind Sister Jeety had worn dangling between the vague
outlines of her breasts. It intrigued him and, with nothing
to do, nothing to look at, he often spent his periods of
intermittent consciousness staring up at the helix, studying
it, pondering it, looking at it on end so that the helix
merged into a series of concentric circles.
"Oh, you've noticed your helix," said Sister Jeety, catch-
ing him unawares.
He lowered his head to look at her.
"Inspiring, isn't it?" she said, that compassionate, rosy
smile on her face.
Obediently, he nodded. She laughed warmly.
"Good morning," she said, tucking the pillow under his
head. "Wonderful morning, isn't it?" She held the straw to
his lips. He sucked, and immediately his head cleared and
he felt awake. "Now, let's see." Sister Jeety drew away the
sheet covering him, and when he looked down he saw he
was completely naked. "Can you move your legs?"
He wiggled his toe.
"Oh, good. A toe. And the other? Good. Try the whole
leg now. That's it. Try harder. Harder. Excellent. You're
moving it. And the other?"
He tried, tried his best, but it was no good. She checked
out his hands, his arms, the musculature of his trunk and

212
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
face. While Sister Jeety was examining him, a man in a
pale-green skin appeared behind her.
"Oh, Dr. Bampf," she turned to greet him. "I was just
going to call you. I think Ylor may be ready for therapy
today." She turned back to the recliner. "Ylor, this is Dr.
Bampf, our resident somatist."
"How're you feeling, Ylor?" Dr. Bampf bent over the
recliner and smiled into the patient's face, his breath sour.
In response, he nodded his head and emitted a low
grunt.
"Why, I think he's getting ready to talk," observed Sis-
ter Jeety.
"Looks promising," said Dr. Bampf unconvincingly. He
took out a small control box from his pocket, depressed a
button, and a multiarmed diagnosticon skittered into the
room.
"Now, this won't hurt. We're just going to check out
your basic functions," said Dr. Bampf as an array of arms
enfolded Creally, the legs of a mechanized spider assault-
ing his warm flesh with cold, metallic transponders. From
all sides came volleys of tiny shocks, quick blips of voltage
firing his neurons. Lying helpless, he could feel his knees
jumping and limbs flexing while blood samples were drawn
and fluids tapped. "Looks like one healthy Nearly Perfect
to me," announced Dr. Bampf, studying the output. "A
little on the slack side from all the bedrest," he said, con-
ferring with Sister Jeety as the arms of the unit continued
to work away on the patient's body.
Seeing the writing appear in the space before the soma-
tist, he tried to look at it, but his head was now being
swung from side to side as facial orifices were opened,
probed, and scanned.
"We'll have a novice come and dress you in a nice, fresh
skin," said Sister Jeety when the diagnosticon had finished
with his head. It had spread his legs and was now worming
a long, flexible tube through his anus.
Amid all the activity, a man dressed in a white robe and

PERFECT PEOPLE
213
turban appeared framed in the open port. He had a white
skin draped over his arm and wore a benevolent smile, like
Sister Jeety's, on his face.
"Ylor, this is Brother Looradoro."
"Call me Loorey," said the young male novice, and the
patient, his muscles still quivering, his stimulated heart
thumping in his chest, didn't quite know which way to
look first. When he glanced down at the tube being with-
drawn, he noticed with distress that his penis stood erect.
No one else in the room, however, seemed to take much
note.
"Well," said Dr. Bampf as the diagnosticon retracted its
arms into its case, "he's all yours." And giving the patient
a reassuring but perfunctory smile, he followed the unit
out the port.
An instant later, as Brother Loorey was busy dressing
him, an autochair rolled into the room. Lifted off the re-
cliner, he was strapped into the chair and, before he quite
realized it, was being whisked out into the hall.
"We'll see you later, Ylor," he heard Sister Jeety's voice
call from behind, and then he was taking a sharp turn,
moving into a corridor that was a flurry of activity,
autochairs filled with patients gliding in all directions,
faces flying past him. Men. Women. Young. Old. All of
them having that look he had seen in the mirror. That
vacant, confused, limp-eyed stare.
Then he was in a line of chairs, waiting in front of a
port.
"We. Gotta. Wait," said a dull, languid voice from be-
hind. He tried to turn, to look, but the back of the chair
was too high. Tightly strapped, he could barely rotate his
neck. He managed to wriggle his wrist so that a finger of
acknowledgment peeked around the edge of the chair.
The man saw it and grunted recognition. "You. New?"
Again the finger. Ahead, the port opened. A chair
passed through, the port closed, all the chairs moved up a
notch.

214
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"Re. Inte. Gration," said the man from behind.
He lifted the finger.
"Just. Do. What. They. Say."
The port opened. The chairs moved up. Two more and it
would be his turn. He lifted his finger in query.
"Obey," came the voice.
The chairs moved up. He was in front of the port. It
opened.
"But. Remember," whispered the voice.
Remember what? he wondered, and then he was in a
cold, cavernous room, squinting into a bank of bright
lights. A male technician was loosening the strap around
his shoulder. Another was seated at a console. He looked
up to see a young female Perfect lowering onto his head a
semisphere made up of a thousand pinlike probes. Yanking
his head to one side, he tried to pull it clear.
"Don't worry," said the female technician, seeing the
terrified look on his face. "It's just a modem. It won't hurt.
I promise." Repositioning his head, she tightened the up-
per strap, then brought the array down, wiggled it until the
points rested on his scalp. "You've lost so much in your
breakdown, we have to help you recover it. So you can
walk again. And read. And remember your past. You want
that, don't you?"
He objected with a grunt.
"It'll come. It's slow. But it'll come," she smiled
sweetly.
"Come on, don't waste your breath," muttered the tech-
nician at her side. "We've got a line a kilometer long wait-
ing out there."
"That Guurds?" called the other technician from the
console.
The man checked the readout behind the autochair.
"Ylor Guurds," he read. "T-1120678."
"T-l 120678," the man reiterated into the holocon.
processing.
"Now just relax and close your eyes," said the woman.

PERFECT PEOPLE
215
She pressed her fingers against his lids, and gently forced
them down.
located, he heard the synthesized voice announce into
the room, and then his head was deluged with hot bursts of
light and sound, his brain flooded with a thousand pin-
pricks of sensations, images and smells, sounds and tastes.
He saw corridors flash before him. Strange rooms. Un-
known faces. Letters of the alphabet in meter-high figures.
He experienced anticipation. Joy. Sorrow. Awe. He
smelled the odor of simmering plank. The waft of pher-
omones. The acrid stench of stagnant, ammoniac plooma.
And there were sounds. Beeps and high, whining tones.
The deafening roar of machines. A cacophonous chorus of
conflicting voices. Words. Mother. Father. Lessons. Arith-
metic. Dress. Skins. Mate. Spring. Sector. And he was
punching in at a turnstile. Riding an ascendor at stomach-
wrenching speeds. Racing down a corridor in accelerated
motion. Streaking along in a transport capsule. All in the
same instant. He felt himself flung through time and space,
backward and forward, reeled and unreeled. The noise ris-
ing to a screeching pitch. The images flying past him with
ever-increasing velocity, so quick that he couldn't grasp
the blurs. Stop. Stop. Stop. Remember. Remember, what?
Ylor. Ylor. Ylor Guurds. Please stop. Please. Enough.
Stop! His brain howled for relief, feeling as though it
would explode. Stop. Stop. Stop! He was grunting. But
they had already stopped, long since. And he was in his
bed. With his head arched back. Staring up at the golden
helix.

When he opened his eyes again, squinting in the bright-
ness, Sister Jeety was standing at the edge of his recliner,
studying him intently.
"What." He formed the word with his parched lips, and
she lifted an eyebrow in surprise. "What. Happ. Ened?"
"Oh, Great C.!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands in
honest delight. "You can talk already."
He looked at her in dizzy puzzlement, his brain still
burning, howling.
"It's remarkable. Quicker than I've ever seen it happen.
You can speak."
"Yes," he said, forming his words with great effort,
straining to think above the internal noise. "I. Can.
Speak."
"What is your name?"
He didn't know. But, somehow, he guessed what she
wanted. "Y. Yl. Ylor," he uttered and saw how pleased it
made her.
"You've had a hard day, Ylor."
"Yes," he agreed through clenched teeth. If only the
aching in his head would stop.
"It's night now."
"Yes."
"You probably need to sleep."
"Yes."
"Here. Take this." She held a straw to his lips. He
sucked at the bland liquid, and slowly the screeching in his
head began to subside. The lights dimmed to a tolerable
41

PERFECT PEOPLE
217
level, the muscles in his jaw relaxed, and a sleepy sense of
peace swept over him like a lazy wave.
"Take a deep breath," said Sister Jeety. "Hold it. Good.
Let it out."
He followed her instructions.
"And again."
The level of well-being rose with each breath.
"And again."
He felt wonderful. Totally at peace. Gone was the noise.
It was quiet. Wonderfully quiet. And all he could hear now
was the rustle of Sister Jeety's robe and starched whimple
when she turned to put the drink away.
"Before you go to sleep," she inquired, "would you care
to pray with me?"
He suspected that's what she wanted, knew it would
make her happy, so he nodded approval.
Removing the chain from around her neck, she placed
her golden helix in his hands. Instinctively he closed his
fingers around the coil, surprised to find how comforting it
felt.
"Let us pray," she said, getting down on her knees be-
side his recliner. She looked at him and, as if on command,
he closed his eyes.
"We pray in the name of Dor, our Creator of all Cre-
ators," she began, her voice even and soft, "that our living
Creator, the source of our life, the embodiment of our aspi-
rations, be preserved so that He may continue His great
and benevolent works. We p.ay that we, His followers, can
continue to serve Him in His ways of everlasting gentle-
ness and mercy. We pray that we all will continue to Be
One."
"Be. One," he echoed without prompting, and Sister
Jeety, so touched by his response, had to bite her lip to
keep the tears from coming to her eyes.
Surpassing all of Sister Jeety's expectations, he made
himself a model patient. Unlike the others at Mercy Sta-

218
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
tion Two, he ate without coaxing, performed his exercises,
and never fought the modem. His speech and coordination
were so quick in returning, his prognosis for recovery so
positive, that Sister Jeety was sure he would emerge with
none of the residual effects—the stilted movements and
affect of speech—that most of the others retained to one
degree or another for the rest of their lives.
"And your parents?" asked Sister Jeety, checking his
recall as she did each morning.
"My father was a maintenance worker in Central Al-
pha-two."
"And your mother? Do you remember her?"
He didn't quite, but thought he knew what to answer.
"She worked in a plank-processing unit in peripheral
Gamma. Level three."
" "Eta. Level one."
"Yes. Eta. Level one."
Did he remember his childhood? Yes, he was a diligent
student. Scored high on the interactive hololessons. Was
accepted to, and attended, the vocational tech for mainte-
nance workers.
Was he mated? Yes. Her name was Oolendora, but she
died prematurely. Congestive heart failure. An undetected
genetic flaw. He was very upset about it. Unremitting grief.
It's what precipitated the breakdown.
"Springs?"
"None."
"Any living close relatives?"
"None."
Sister Jeety personally escorted him through the rounds
of his therapy routine. He was walking now, walking while
the other patients in his group were still confined to
autochairs.
"Everybody here is terribly impressed by your prog-
ress," said Sister Jeety, pulling him aside to let a long file of
autochairs pass in a corridor. "Why, even Dr. Bampf's
surprised—and he's been around longer than any of us."

PERFECT PEOPLE
219
He nodded to her but was watching the passing people.
Those faces. Vacant. Haggard. Just like the one he saw
each time he studied his mirror. He wanted to speak to
them, find the man who had whispered from behind that
first day outside the modem, but now, like always, he was
never left alone, never given the chance. When he sat at the
holocon in the reeducation room of the therapeutic divi-
sion, Sister Jeety or one of the young novices always
seemed to be close at hand, ready to discourage him from
looking at the others or trying to exchange words. Even
the holocon was observing him.
pay attention, it would remind him whenever his
eyes or mind drifted, concentrate on your work.
Under the holocon's tutelage, he relearned the basic
arithmetic functions plus a little bit of algebra and trig. He
was given a smattering of history and religion, told of the
events leading up to the Great War, the role of the Cre-
ators, the need for the people of Creatoria to continue
working as One. He was taught how to manage a budget,
order plank, utilize vouchers, punch in on a sensory -key-
board—the process of learning at the holocon coming to
him with remarkable ease. There were moments, in fact,
brief instances, when he surprised himself with his own
facility, with how agilely he could interact with the Main-
frame. It was almost as if someone inside of him were
directing his fingers over the board.
After his learning sessions, he was taken for physical
therapy. To improve his coarse motor skills, he was given
special exercises for his arms and legs, strapped into a con-
traption that monitored his metabolism as he moved
weights along predetermined patterns, the device's sensing
loop pushing him iO his limits. Given an added, thorough
vleeming, the tone of his muscles began to return. His ap-
petite picked up too, and with it grew his strength and
endurance. His fine-motor skills were, however, painfully
slow in coming. It was hard for him to control a crayon,
draw a smooth curve or a straight line. His drifting eye

220
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
didn't make things any easier. Seated at a long table in the
Occupational Therapy Unit one afternoon, he was given a
needle and spools of colored thread and told to sew.
"Sew what?" he asked, watching the other men and
women at work.
"Anything you like," explained the beturbaned novice.
"Ssssh!" He turned to hush two patients at the far end who
tried to exchange surreptitious words. "Just try to sew
these two pieces of fabric together. Pretend you're mend-
ing a skin. Here, let me thread the needle for you. What
color would you like?"
He chose red. Why it appealed to him, he didn't know.
Clumsily he stitched a circular object, going over and over
it again, filling in the crude figure.
"What's that you're sewing?" inquired Sister Jeety when
she came by later to check on him and some of her other
patients. "How interesting," she said, leaning over his
shoulder to examine the crude design. It was a red sphere
with a dimple on top. With green thread he had sewn to
the dimple a stemlike appendage. "What is it?"
"I don't know." He laughed, embarrassed.
"Well . . . it's very . . . very interesting." She smiled.
"Keep up the good work."
Life at Mercy Station Two fell into a routine. It began
with Dr. Bampf and the usual early-morning checkup.
Then the modem. Rest. Reeducation. Physical therapy.
Occupational therapy. Emotional counseling with Sister
Jeety. Prayer. Sleep.
One evening, shortly before prayers, the routine was
broken by the appearance of visitors—a man and woman.
The man was a tall, robust Perfect with deeply bronzed
complexion. Dressed in a modish, well-tailored skin, he
stood at the foot of the recliner, surveying the patient in-
tently.
The silent scrutiny made him uncomfortable and finally
he asked, "Who are you?"
"Oh, you don't remember me?"

PERFECT PEOPLE
221
He shook his head.
"I'm Mr. Weems. I'm from the Division of Psychosocial
Services. Just dropped by to see how you're feeling now."
He looked at the woman who stood partially hidden by
the man. She struck him as attractive. Very attractive.
"Oh." The man smiled, politely stepping aside. "This is
my mate, Veena. Veena, Mr. Guurds."
The woman smiled at him unsurely, and he found that,
even at the expense of being rude to the man, he couldn't
pull his eyes from her.
"So"—the man noisily cleared his throat—"how are
you feeling, Mr. Guurds?"
"Fine," he answered, shifting his eyes back to Mr.
Weems. He noticed that the corner of the man's mouth
was twitching.
"Good. I'm glad to hear that." He nodded. "Well"—he
smiled broadly—"I just wanted to see how things were
progressing."
When the patient turned again to look at the woman,
she was already out the door.
"I understand you'll be returning to work shortly," said
Mr. Weems.
"I didn't know that."
"It'll be good to get back into society again, won't it?"
"Yes."
"Pick up your old maintenance work."
"Yes."
"Well, I'll be leaving you," said the official, probing him
for the last time with his eyes.
"Yes," he said. "I have to say my prayers."
"Of course. Prayers. Right. We all have to say our
prayers, don't we?" he chuckled. "Well, take care of your-
self, Ylor. And good luck."
"Be One," he smiled.

When the novice arrived to take him to his new life, Sister
Jeety came to wish him well.
"All packed?"
He nodded at the small kit containing his meager be-
longings.
"Don't forget now. You must come back for regular
evaluations."
"I won't."
"And take your medication. Twice a day."
"I will."
Silence.
"And . . ."
"Yes?"
"I'm going to miss you," she said, her face Rushing. "It's
not every day that we get such a pleasant and hard-work-
ing patient."
"You've been very kind to me," he said, looking her
deep in the eye. She made a tentative move, he noticed, as
if wanting to touch him, but held herself back.
"You're very special, Ylor. Really," she said, lowering
her eyes. "And there's . . . well, there's something I want
you to have." Unclipping the golden helix from her neck-
lace, she pressed it into his hand, murmured a quick One,
and rushed from the room.
He watched her disappear out the port, then stared
down at the polished helix as it shone in his palm.
"Shall we go?" suggested Brother Loorey, and together
they left Mercy Station Two and went off to the tube sta-
42

PERFECT PEOPLE
223
tion. After a short capsule ride, he was taken to a first-level
dwelling in the old Beta sector.
"This is your home, Ylor," explained Brother Loorey as
they entered. The dwelling was cramped and tiny. Hardly
larger than a closet, it had barely enough space to hold a
recliner, cupboard, and a small, primitive holocon. It
didn't even have a vleemer.
"You'll be able to use the vleemer over at the workers'
athletic center," said Brother Loorey, anticipating the
question. "Now, I'll put these over here," he said, unpack-
ing the skins and folding them neatly onto a shelf. "We'll
put the boots down here. And I'll put your medication
right over here, on top of the holocon, so you'll see it and
remember it. How's that?"
"Fine. Thank you."
He was then taken to his job in the utility corridor that
ran through Omicron and introduced to his new boss,
Buunadoro Ialam.
"Howya doin' there, Ylor? Just call me Buunor. All the
boy- and girl-springs call me that." Buunor was a big man,
a Nearly Perfect with a barrel chest and beefy hands. On
one of them, his index finger was missing. When he spoke,
his voice boomed. "Come on in. I'll give you a free tour.
Show you your job." He dropped one of his massive hands
on Ylor's shoulders and, spinning him around, pointed
him in the direction of a wide port. Brother Loorey stood
watching them unsurely. "Come on. Don't worry. He'll be
all right. Buunor'll take care of him. Be One," he said with
a raucous laugh. "And all that plooma," he turned and
muttered under his breath. "Come on." He beckoned and
obediently Ylor followed him. They went through a tunnel
and climbed a long ramp. "These flanking religious types
give me a real pain," he said as they moved ahead, the
sound of machinery getting louder. "You're not one of
them kind, are you?"
Ylor shook his head.

224
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"What'd you do before—I mean, the kind of work you
used to do?"
"Maintenance worker."
"You ever been on plooma patrol?"
He shook his head, puzzled. "I'm not sure."
"Oh, you're gonna love it." Buunor laughed. The boss
punched in at a port. It slid open to reveal an enormous
vertical corridor running, from top to bottom, the full diz-
zying eight levels of Creatoria. When they stepped in, the
noise was deafening, the fetid stench of plooma over-
whelming. Ylor looked around. Up. Down. The corridor
was a confusion of pipes and ducts and bundles of optic
cables running in all directions. Cage lifts filled with work-
ers rose and fell on all sides. A complex system of scaffold-
ing crisscrossed the full height of the column and on every
level there were huge pumps and ventilators and moisture
recyclers thundering away as men and women scampered
up and down the ladders, servicing what was the very guts
of Omicron. And everywhere was that smell. That over-
powering odor.
"You'll get used to it," said Buunor. "Couple of weeks
and when you go back to your dwelling you'll miss it!" He
slapped him on the back and laughed.
Ylor smiled.

The job was easy. Easy because it kept him busy. Kept him
from having to think. Teamed up with Daraan, a young
Nearly Perfect assigned by Buunor to teach him the ropes,
he was kept constantly on the move, scurrying up and
down ladders, racing across the scaffolding and through
the labyrinth of conduits, hoe in hand, tools dangling from
his workbelt.
"Okay, Ylor," said Daraan, checking his wrist dispatch
for the location of a jam-up. "This one's at 0-3-011-6.
Think you can find it on your own this time?"
After riding the cage lift to the third level, Ylor led the
way across the mesh walkway bridging the utility corridor,
went down a tunnel and up a short ladder, taking Daraan
directly to the plugged pipe.
"Good going, Ylor."
Shutting off the pipe, he quickly dismantled the union,
poked free the packed sludge, and reassembled the pipe.
"Okay," Daraan said after he had restarted the pump
and the plooma was freely flowing. "Now, here's a tough
one for you: 0-7-206-3." And jumping into the cage lift,
they flew down to the seventh level. Ylor led Daraan
through a tunnel, made two lefts, and then got lost.
"I'm sorry," he apologized.
"Hey, no sweat, Ylor. Don't worry. I didn't really ex-
pect you to get this one. Here, let me show you the way."
They snaked their way through a maze of ever-narrowing
tunnels. Crouched over to keep from hitting the pipes and
43

226
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
sleeves that ran overhead, they were moving deep through
the bowels of the seventh level.
"It's gonna take you awhile to really get the hang of the
layout," said Daraan, punching their access into one of the
series of locks blocking their way. "It took me the better
part of a year."
Standing behind Daraan as they waited for the lock to
clear, Ylor tried to orient himself and recall the path.
Here, hidden within Omicron, he was discovering, was a
whole other world, a vast network of interconnecting pas-
sageways and ducts. One could apparently reach any point
in Omicron without ever using a normal corridor or as-
cendor.
"Just like new," said Daraan, proud of his protege,
when the line was free and running. "Hey, you're really
getting the knack of this. Ooops: 0-7-994-3. Off we go."
With Ylor leading the way again, crossing the core of
the utility corridor, they moved through another series of
tunnels and locks on the seventh. The seventh level. For
some reason there always seemed to be trouble there.
"How come?" asked Ylor as he worked on a sluice, try-
ing to break the tight blockage with his hoe, the dark,
stinking sludge splashing up on his overalls.
"Perfect plooma," explained Daraan. "Here, let me give
you a hand."
"What do you mean?"
"It's hard. Doesn't break up. Not like ours, you know."
Ylor didn't know. There were apparently lots of other
things that Ylor still didn't know. He sensed it in the way
the other workers always seemed to be looking at him.
Sometimes he caught their whispers behind him. Zero,
they would be saying. Zero what? he wondered.
"Awww, just ignore them," Buunor told him. "They're
just a bunch of plooma peckers. Jealous 'cause you're do-
ing such a good job. C. almighty, I've never had a man like
you. You're as good as five of these other jerks."
The following week he was put to work on his own. He

PERFECT PEOPLE
227
preferred it. Not for the solitude, but because it kept him
busier. Chasing down the blockages, the Mainframe relent-
lessly dispatching him from point to point, he didn't have a
second to dwell on his own condition. Activity, any activ-
ity, seemed preferable to facing the blank walls of his
cramped dwelling. Approaching the end of a work day, he
could feel his apprehension building, the coming night
looming. Most of the evenings he spent sitting on his re-
cliner in his tiny dwelling, staring at the walls and waiting
for the time to pass and sleep to finally approach. Some-
times he watched the holocon. Sometimes he just let it run
to fill the void of the stark room or drown out the sounds
of the neighbors that drifted through the thin, old walls.
request? the holocon would inquire when primed.
"Oh, I don't care. Anything."
And he would be given a religious service or a program
about the state of the economy or some sitcom. It was all
the same to him.
When he finally slumped into sleep, physically ex-
hausted from his day of work, he often awoke after just a
few hours and lay there for the rest of the night, staring
despondently into the blackness. Frequently he had night-
mares, frightening visions in which he felt himself chased
and hounded by faceless men, or found himself wandering,
hopelessly lost, in an arid, barren land. Sometimes he woke
up screaming. Often just crying. Everything seemed
screwy. Even his name didn't feel right to him. What in the
Creator's name is the matter with me? he worried. Am I
having another breakdown?
"And how's everything going, Ylor?" inquired Sister
Jeety when he appeared for his scheduled visit.
"Fine," he said, though it wasn't.
"Are you taking your medication?"
"Yes," he nodded, though he had already forgotten for a
week. He was lying, he realized, though he didn't know
why.
"And your work?"

228
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"I've been promoted."
"Wonderful!"
That, at least, was true. Buunor, who prided himself on
spotting talent when he saw it, had taken him off the
plooma detail and put him onto pump repair.
"Come on. Cheer up. Don't look so blasted glum. I've
given you a promotion!" said Buunor, who wanted the
whole world to smile and laugh with him. "Life's short.
Before you know it, you're gone and it's all over."
For Buunor's benefit, he forced a smile. Buunor put his
arm around him.
"You know what you need?" he said, pulling him close,
so near he could smell his boss's breath, hot and sour and
reeking of tobacco. Resting on his shoulder was that beefy
hand with the crude stump where the finger was missing.
"What you need," whispered Buunor, "is a good, old-fash-
ioned flanking. Just flank your brains out for a night. Now,
I know this young girl-spring," he said, "not expensive,
and what a crazy number! Looks almost like a Perfect.
Now, she can—"
"No thanks." He squirmed uncomfortably under Buu-
nor's arm. The idea of paying a strange woman repelled
him. He didn't even want to imagine what Sister Jeety
would think of him if she ever found out. She, who had
given him her very own helix. "But I appreciate your
thinking of me," he said politely. "Really, I do."
"Hey, any time," said Buunor, pulling him yet tighter in
the vice of his arm. "Just give me the word, and the two of
us'H go out and paint Creatoria some night."
Yes. The night. The nights. Those miserable nights.
Each of them tugging him deeper into the abyss. So deep
that it was hard even to fake a smile, and he could feel the
flesh hanging limply from the bones of his face. So deep
that rather than going home to face the bleakness of his
dwelling, he often spent hours just wandering the corridors
of Beta until his feet ached, wondering, Do I know this
place? Have I ever been here before? Yet nothing seemed to

PERFECT PEOPLE
229
register. There were no hooks, no connections. To kill
time, he tried going shopping like the others did for fun,
but spending his scant earnings gave him no pleasure. An
old skin. A new skin. It was all a matter of indifference to
him. There was nothing he craved but to get away from
the nights. And the nightmares. They were getting worse
now, so vivid and terrifying that he was afraid to close his
eyes—afraid that in sleep he would again have to witness
the sight of living people being consumed by flames or
taste the smell of burned flesh, see the back of a crushed
skull, or hear the unmistakable sound of blood gurgling in
a dying chest. And those eyes, those haunting eyes that
kept returning to him in his dreams—dark eyes, wide with
shock, staring beseechingly up at him. Awakening with a
shudder, he would discover himself crying—hot, bitter
tears streaming down his face. Unable to go back to sleep,
he would inevitably pass the night sitting on the edge of his
recliner, silently weeping into the darkness, unable to stem
his inexplicable sorrow.
He felt his soul plunging deeper and deeper. At work
one early morning, after passing a night with hardly an
hour's sleep, he groggily climbed up the scaffolding to the
highest level. Leaning over the railing, he peered down at
the tiny figures of the workers on the bottom and contem-
plated throwing himself into the beckoning guts of the util-
ity corridor. Yet he didn't. This misery would pass, he told
himself. It was a matter of adjustment, acclimation, just as
Sister Jeety had forewarned.
Attempting to fight the despair, he immersed himself in
his job, cramming his mind with the detailed workings of
the system, the layout of the conduits and pipes and tun-
nels, committing to memory the myriad of code sequences
that opened the locks of interstitial Omicron.
"The pipes," he asked Daraan one day.
"Which pipes?"
"The ones that come up from below the transport level.
Where are they from?"

230
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"Search me. Tell you the truth, I never even knew there
were any pipes down there."
He asked Buunor.
"Awww, don't worry your little head about those,
Ylor," said the boss. "That's not your problem."
"I know, but where do they come from?"
"You just keep those pumps moving the plooma. That's
your job, okay?"
"Okay. Sure."
Shortly thereafter, his job was expanded. In addition to
covering the large interior pumps of the central corridor,
he was now also assigned to answer calls up on the surface
where the sludge was solar-dried, baled, and shipped off by
hoverbarge to the farms.
"Be sure to wear your radiation skin," warned Buunor
before sending him up to the top. "Don't want our best
man getting radiation disease, do we?"
"Wimps," he muttered without thinking.
"What?" asked the boss.
"Huh? I didn't say anything."
The surface, he found, was a strange world. Emerging
from the deafening roar of the utility corridor, it was by
contrast eerily silent. Here the luminous sun was blazing
and hot. Beating down on him as he labored over a pump
or a condenser in the moisture recycler, it made him ner-
vous and fretful. The wind blowing past him left him con-
fused and disconcerted, and he often had to strain to con-
centrate on the task at hand. Sometimes, when he was up
on the surface too long, he even heard voices uttering non-
sensical words in his head. Crazy things like Hickorydick-
orydock. God. Wendy.
He told Sister Jeety about the strange feelings he got up
on the surface.
"The outside world is always a little disconcerting. After
a breakdown, sunlight can be particularly upsetting.
Maybe you shouldn't go up there any more. I'll talk to
your supervisor and—"

PFRFECT PEOPLE
231
"No, no," he said, almost too quickly. "I can talk to him
myself."
"That's good. We like to see our people managing for
themselves," she smiled.
He, however, never did mention it to Buunor. And, de-
spite the inevitable turmoil it brought on, he kept finding
excuses to go up to the surface where he would stand in
the broiling sun, watching the hoverbarges come and go,
anxiously checking his old timepiece as if he had an ap-
pointment to keep.
"Hey, Ylor," called Buunor one evening from his tiny su-
pervisor's booth as the day-shift workers were leaving the
locker room. "Ylor."
He stopped and looked.
"Yeah. Yeah. You. Come in here. I wanna talk to you."
Parting from the stream of workers, he stepped into the
office.
Leaning back in the chair behind his desk, Buunor gave
him a big grin. "Got good news for you, Ylor."
"Oh?"
"It's three months now. You're off probation."
"Thank you."
"No. That's not the good news. The good news is that
you're getting a raise. A big one."
Silence. Weary from the day's work, his eye was drifting
and when he looked at his boss he saw Buunor's moon face
44

232
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
in overlapping doubles. Even when he strained, he couldn't
get the images to merge.
"It's just been approved," piped Buunor. "Fifteen per-
cent! Now, whatta you say to that?"
"I appreciate it," he said woodenly.
"Appreciate it," mimicked Buunor. "Come on. C. al-
mighty, at least smile a little! You're supposed to be happy.
Do you know how many people here would give their right
arm for a raise like that? Huh? And after just a few lousy
weeks!"
Although the raise meant nothing to him, Buunor's
kindness did.
"Well, I'm very happy," Ylor said, forming a smile.
"Good. That's what I like to hear. A raise." Buunor
shook his head. "A fifteen percent raise. Somebody big
down there must have their eye on you all right. Now, I
think this calls for a celebration, don't you?"
Uncertainly he nodded his head.
"Close the port," boomed Buunor.
Obediently, he punched it closed and stood facing the
desk.
"Come on, sit down already. Take a load off your feet."
He sat on the rickety chair in front of the desk. From a
drawer, Buunor produced two grimy glasses, which he
placed with an assertive bang on the desktop. Leaning far
back in his chair, he reached behind him to the cabinet
where his official record discs were stored.
"Hmmm, let me see now," he said, pulling open a file
with a mischievous grin. "I think I got it filed here under
'T,' T for Tox," he chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah. Here she is."
He pulled out a small vial of clear liquid and held it appre-
ciatively to the light. Then, lovingly, he poured a cautious
shot for each of them. Reaching for his glass, Buunor lifted
it. "Come on. Come on." He waited. "Pick it up."
"But—but that's illegal."
"Illegal-schmegal," he said. "What the flank are you? A
Perfect or something? Or one of those religious nuts?"

perfect people
233
He shook his head.
"Here." Buunor shoved the glass closer to him. "Go
on."
He looked down at the crystalline liquid undulating
back and forth in the glass.
"Go on. Drink up."
He wet his lips.
"Don't worry. One drink won't make you a Tox."
He stared at the glass.
"Believe me. It's safe. It might even make you a human
being."
He looked up at Buunor, hurt.
"Oh, plooma. I didn't mean that," the boss apologized.
"What I meant was—well—it'll make you feel good. You
can't go around looking like you're ready to drop dead any
minute. Go on."
His hand reached out.
"To your health." Buunor held up his glass and then,
tipping it back, took a good sip. "Ahhhhh," he said,
smacking his lips.
Ylor brought the glass to his mouth, tipped it, and, in a
single gulp, swallowed it all. It ran down his throat in a
hot, scorching stream and lay burning in his belly as his
eyes watered.
"Holy ploomaP' muttered Buunor. Impressed by the
feat and not to be shown up, he downed the rest of his.
"Whew!" he said hoarsely, gasping for breath. "Good
stuff, huh?"
Ylor sat there feeling the warmth spread through his
body. The smile on his face that he had worn as a mask
grew real and large.
"You should see the look on your face." Buunor
laughed, pointing unsteadily at him.
Ylor laughed.
Buunor laughed.
"Here. You don't deserve it. But have another on me."
He poured them each a generous shot.

234
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"To our dearly beloved Creator," said Buunor with a
sarcastic grin. "Creator of Creators of Creators—"
"Our beloved Creator," Ylor echoed, downing the shot
and holding out his glass for more.
Buunor filled it again.
Ylor held his glass unsteadily. "To the plooma works."
He laughed loudly.
"The plooma works!" Buunor echoed with a roar.
"To plooma. Perfect plooma."
"Perfect plooma!"
Before they knew it, the precious vial was empty.
"Now tell me, Ylor, don't you feel good?" asked Buu-
nor.
"I fleel gweat." He staggered to his feet. He tried to
punch open the port, but his fingers kept hitting the wrong
sequence.
Weaving his way over from behind his desk, Buunor
came to help.
"Listen, Ylor," he said, holding on to him for support.
"There's something I want you to know."
"Wright!"
"I wan' you to know that no matta what anybody tells
you, you ain't no Zero. Take it from Buunor," he said,
putting his arm around Ylor and pulling him close. "You
got more brains in your little pinky than any of those
plooma-sucking Perfects. Now, I don't know where you
come from, springo, but lemme give you some good ad-
vice."
"Adwice," Ylor echoed with a silly smile on his face.
"Yeah, advice. Keep your mouth shut. Never let 'em
know what you're thinking. And smile. Smile your ass off.
That's what I've done. Got it?" He gave Ylor a parting
squeeze.
"Message weceived," he responded, still punching away
at the port.
Buunor shoved him aside, opened the port with a laugh,
and let him stumble out.

PERFECT PEOPLE
235
In the tube station he kept giggling to himself. He was
still thinking about his crazy toast. "Perfect plooma!" he
uttered and burst into loud peals of laughter. It was the
funniest thing he had ever heard. Perfect plooma! People
stared at him in disgust as, staggering with laughter, he
jumped the queue and clumsily climbed into a capsule. He
was laughing so hard that by mistake he punched in some
coordinates in Upsilon and had to clear them to reenter
the right station under his dwelling in Beta.
He laughed the whole trip to Beta. Riding up to the top
level in the ascendor packed with workers, he had to clamp
his hands over his mouth to stifle his mirth. He was still
laughing when he reached the port to his dwelling. When
he stepped in and looked around, saw the closeness of the
walls, the drabness, the white, hissing halo of the holocon
that he had left running, his laughter suddenly changed to
tears. And he was weeping, emitting loud cries as his body
was wracked by wretched sobs. And he was plunging
again. Deeper. Faster. Despair and grief crashing over him
like a tidal wave. The strange words that had echoed in his
head when he was up on the surface now issued from his
lips. Wendy, Wendy, he babbled as the intoxicant broke
loose inhibitions and stray fragments of memory drifted to
the surface.
"Oh, C., oh, C. What am I to do?" he wailed, feeling
himself drown in despondency. "I can't take it anymore,"
he moaned. His eyes fell on the golden helix that lay beside
his recliner. Desperately, he lunged for it, grasped it, held
it tightly, pressing it to his lips. "Oh, please, help me," he
muttered, but where before it had provided comfort, now,
when he needed it the most, the glistening spiral gave him
nothing. He thought of praying, of getting down on his
knees like Sister Jeety and asking the Creator to help him,
but couldn't bring himself to kneel, much less utter a
prayer. And, in a frightening burst of anger, he took the
helix and flung it against the wall. It hit, bounced off, and
rolled away under the recliner.

236
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
It's that lousy intoxicant, he told himself, fighting for a
semblance of sanity. It'll pass. Give it time. Time. Time.
Time. His shoulders shaking, he wept violently into his
hands, his heart feeling as though it would burst. Time.
Time, he kept telling himself, and slowly, exhausted, his
weeping diminished, yielding to shudders and stifled sobs.
Spent, he lay back on his recliner. With his sleeve, he
wiped his nose and face. Then stopped. Did it again, this
time slowly, deliberately. The movement. The gesture.
There was something about it. . . . It reminded him of
something. Of ... of someone. Somewhere. His life be-
fore the breakdown? He did it again, but this time the
sense of deja vu was absent. He went to the console and
took a draft of stima. It made him feel better, just a little.
The weeping was subsiding, the level of desperation falling.
He sat down on the edge of the recliner. The holocon was
still hissing.
"Give me something," he addressed it weakly.
request?
"Anything," he muttered. "No. Wait. Entertainment."
form?
"Oh, I don't know. Preprogrammed."
Suddenly that feeling was returning. That inkling of
memory. He rubbed his sleeve across his nose. He sniffed
himself as if he could detect on his skin a strange and
forgotten scent.
type?
"Hickorydickorydock," he said without thinking, the
words leaping from his mouth.
assembling.
Suddenly, from the space in front of the holocon, a face
peered out at him. A familiar face. It was the visage that
had stared out at him whenever he studied the mirror back
in Mercy Station Two. It was the same, yet it wasn't. The
features seemed younger, smoother, less haggard.
"My name is Creally Leemling," said the face, stealing
his voice. It was the color of his voice, yet the tone was

PERFECT PEOPLE
237
different. It was assured and strong. "I'm a second-rank
P.M. with fifteen years on the Force. I live in Upsilon sector,
level five, corridor two thirty-five. I'm thirty-nine years old. I
have a mate named Veena. I was schooled in the Creatoria
Technicum and after a year transferred to the P.M. Acad-
emy. " He sat holding his breath, as if any movement might
break the spell. "Eight days ago I began a case out of my
jurisdiction ..."
When the program ran out, he remained motionless in
front of the holocon.
request? it kept asking, request? request?
But he didn't hear it. There were words buzzing loudly
in his head. Leemling. Creally. P.M. Veena. Survivor.
Plans. Escape. Zero. And they frightened him, terrified
him.
request? request? request?
Creally. Creally. Creally.
If it was true ... if ... if ... He dared not think.
"Repeat the program," he said, and he knew that if it
didn't come up, then it had all been a hallucination and he
was crazier, sicker, than anyone could possibly imagine.
password?
Password. Password? There was a password. Absently
he again ran his sleeve across his nose. "Hickorydick-
orydock."
"My name is Creally Leemling. I am a second-rank P.M.
with ..." Yes. It was there. The face. His face. His voice.
Creally, he said, addressing the image, the word at first
feeling strange on his lips. Creally. Creally. Creally Leem-
ling. The more he repeated it, the more right and natural it
felt. Creally. Creally.
When the program was completed, he ordered it up
again, letting the face, his face, speak to him of a past that,
though long forgotten, seemed to ring true, seemed to con-
nect—tiny fragments fitting the slots of unanswered dilem-
mas. Yes, yes, it all made sense now. The way the name
Ylor had never felt right. The way his fingers back at

238
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
Mercy Station Two had moved so knowingly over the sen-
sory keyboard. Were these the hands of a maintenance
worker? he wondered, staring at them. Just this evening,
toxed to the gills, he had mistakenly punched in Upsilon
for his dwelling. But if this program was true, then it had
not been a mistake. That was his home. And the dreams.
Those blasted dreams. Somewhere, somehow he was
chased. And he had wandered through an arid, barren
land. Had seen people burned alive. And Zero. Zero. He
understood what it meant now. And he understood the
strange visit by the man named Weems. And the woman,
the attractive woman with him.
". . . She is, I guess, somewhere around eighteen or
nineteen years old. About one hundred seventy centimeters
tall, fifty-six kilos. Hair auburn with reddish tint. Noncerti-
fied color. Eyes ..."
There was a young woman. He wracked his brain, but
try as he might, couldn't conjure up her face. ". . . She is
a quiet, gentle girl-spring who speaks a dialect of what I
think is . . ."
"Wendy," he uttered, "Wendy. Wendy." He let the word
form slowly on his lips, lovingly, as if caressing it, yet her
face still eluded him, and he couldn't imagine her voice.
That night, long after the neighbors in the adjacent
dwellings had gone to sleep, he continued listening to the
program, studying each word, each phrase and nuance—
listening to his own voice as it told him of his other exis-
tence, of his prestigious life as a high-level P.M., of a long
journey and a witnessed massacre, of a mate that he had
and a young woman he apparently loved, of corruption and
mendacity at the highest levels and a dream of escape to
start a new life, an earth life.
When he finally fell asleep, he slept peacefully and with-
out dreams.

Sanitized and dressed in a fresh skin, he emerged into the
late-morning crowds of upper Beta. The holocons were
noisily vying with each other, flooding the crisscrossing
hallways with their images. People jostled him as he made
his way to an ascendor. The siren of an emergency vehicle
screamed in the distance. None of it, however, bothered
him. He was too absorbed in looking around, taking in
everything through new eyes, feeling as if he had just re-
covered from a long, debilitating illness. In the corridors,
the light was amber and bright, the ceiling a high blue with
but patches of faint white—just like the day on which he
had left on the suborb, the day that had transformed his
life. Yes, I remember, he thought elatedly. The boost, the
Ministrator, the X-3 clunker that he used to fly over the
sparkling domes of the farm. It was all coming back now.
By itself and without prompting.
Riding down in the ascendor, his body pressed against
the rear wall by a crush of people, he, Creally, was think-
ing about work. Inside his head a voice, the voice of Ylor,
was reminding him to report to the utility corridor. It was
the voice of reason, the voice of conformity, but he pushed
it aside. He was Creally. Creally Leemling. Not Ylor. Let
their pumps break. Let them drown in their own plooma.
But if you don't report— He cut short the voice and took a
capsule to Central Lambda.
Emerging in the government complex, he walked slowly
through the large plazas, his eyes sweeping from side to
side, taking it all in. Yes. It did feel familiar. This turn in
45

240
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
the corridor here. The location of a port. These steps.
These ramps. Even the recycled air seemed to possess a
recognizable quality of staleness.
He entered the P.M. complex. Unnoticed, he ventured
cautiously up and down a few of the corridors. When he
got to the dispatcher's booth, he stopped short. From the
distance he saw a man lean out to call to a passing uni-
formed P.M. The face. He knew the face. He just couldn't
attach a name to it. A woman came down the hall towards
him. He recognized her too. Quickly he turned and hurried
from the Headquarters.
His next trip took him to Upsilon. Level five. Corridor
235. Here he felt strange and uneasy. Walking toward what
had apparently been his former home, he glanced through
the open entries as he passed the other dwellings. They
seemed surprisingly large and spacious. Nothing like the
little box he lived in on upper Beta. He neared his own
port. Veena, he muttered to himself, and he saw before him
the striking woman who had fled his room in Mercy Sta-
tion Two. She had looked like a Perfect. He had been
mated with someone like that? He. Ylor. Member of the
plooma patrol. What irony!
When he reached the port of his old dwelling, he peered
in through the half-open entry, expecting to see Veena.
"Yes?" said a woman, looking up from her console. Tall
and well dressed, she was a Perfect with heavily bronzed
face and wide, pewter-colored eyeshadow. With her in the
living room were two young springs, sitting at their holo-
lessons. They, too, turned to look at the strange man
standing in the portway.
find the foci of this hyperbola, ordered the lesson.
"Yes?" repeated the woman.
He stared at her. "Oh, sorry. Wrong port." He smiled,
and she responded with a Perfect smile.
He roamed the length and breadth of Creatoria, jumping
at whim into a capsule to pursue a memory whenever it
sprang to mind. He visited the shopping mall at Xi, the

PERFECT PEOPLE
241
suborb station in Nu, the old haunts in Gamma and Delta
that once had been his beat. Some of the places he began to
recognize at once, others needed coaxing. Often the most
insignificant thing—a smell, an unrepaired chink in a wall,
the rattle of a loose ventilator grill—was enough to elicit a
forgotten memory. Seeing a shabby, pockmarked port in
peripheral Delta, he remembered that it was from there,
that dwelling, he had rescued an injured girl-spring from
her brutal mother. In upper Central Epsilon it was the
quality of light that brought to mind a lost boy-spring. A
level down from that, a springnapped infant had been
found, half starved, in an abandoned dwelling. Yes. This
one. Just around the sharp corner from the main corridor.
Piecing together the bits and shards of memory, he
could feel the mosaic of his old life take shape. With cer-
tainty, he could now recall most of his job and the people
he had worked with, remember living with Veena, her friv-
olous friend Eleey, even parts of his very early childhood.
Yet, despite it all, there was still a piece missing. Beyond
witnessing the beginnngs of what must have been the mas-
sacre, the assembly of the strike force above the delta, he
could recall nothing until the point where he had awoken
in Mercy Station Two. Nothing, least of all the young
woman he was supposed to have loved.
In the late afternoon, he inexplicably found himself en-
tering the Museum of Human History. Passing through
the turnstile of the main entrance, he wondered what it
was that had brought him there. He stood in the large
entry plaza, looking around. It meant nothing to him.
Nothing at all. Following the walkways as they wound
through the exhibits, he passed through a prehistoric area,
a marsh, a rain forest. He looked perfunctorily at the wild-
life; stopped at an ancient stone structure surrounded by a
moat and a meadow of high grass. Interesting, he thought,
but the long walk through the museum gave him nothing
but a nagging pain in his lower back. Tired from his long
day of discovery, he went home.

242
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
* * *
When he got to his dwelling that night, there was an
urgent message awaiting him on the holocon. It was from
Sister Jeety.
"Ylor, I want to see you first thing tomorrow morning.
Before you go to work."
Rising early the next morning, he took a capsule straight
over to Mercy Station Two. Sister Jeety was in her office,
waiting for him.
"Sit down, Ylor," she said. Her normally smiling, rosy
face looked tense and serious.
Creally took a seat and waited.
"You missed a day's work yesterday."
"I wasn't feeling well."
"And our meeting."
"Oh. I'm sorry," he answered woodenly. "I forgot."
"So you were ill."
"Yes," he nodded.
"Though not too sick to wander around, huh?"
He tried to hide his surprise in a blank look.
"Ylor, why did you go to the museum?"
Silence.
Of course, he was thinking, they're watching my move-
ments. But if they were doing that, they were probably
monitoring his holocon. If so, did the Mainframe think it
odd that he kept asking for the same piece of entertain-
ment? His epsilon! he suddenly remembered. He had to
watch it, keep it low. In his mind he heard Buunor's voice:
Keep your mouth shut. Never let 'em know what you're
thinking. Smile your ass off.
"Ylor, I asked you a question."
"Huh?"
"What were you doing in the museum?"
"I don't really know," he answered honestly. "I didn't
even know it existed. I just happened upon it." He looked
her straight in the eye. "It's in Alpha."
"I know where it is," she said sternly, but from the

PERFECT PEOPLE
243
softening look on her face the answer seemed to placate
her a little. "Look, Ylor," she said, absently fingering the
helix that hung from her neck. It was a new one, he no-
ticed, larger even than the one she had given him. "We're
worried about you. We don't want you regressing."
The museum, he was thinking, what's the big deal with
the museum? Does it have any connection with the gap in
my memory?
"When you had your breakdown . . ."
"Yes?" He tried not to sound too eager.
"You were apparently found in the museum."
"Oh."
"You understand?"
"Yes. I understand. I'll stay away," he said, and saw her
brighten. The museum, he had to get to it. "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize."
The gap, he was wondering. How big was it? How long
ago was it that he had been zeroed out? How much time
had he actually spent in Mercy Station Two? With the
lights always on in his room, he had had to take Sister
Jeety's word that it was morning or night. What seemed
like months could have been days. Or vice versa.
"But I am sorry. For missing work. For wandering. For
all the trouble I've caused everybody. I couldn't help it."
He hung his head low.
"Oh?"
"I—I did something bad," he finally confessed.
"Tell me," she coaxed.
He hesitated.
"Go on. It's better to get it out in the open."
"I drank—I drank some intoxicant."
"Oh, dear C.!" she exclaimed, looking scandalized.
Though she appeared shocked, he saw, nonetheless, that
on a deeper level his confession relieved her, providing an
explanation for his erratic behavior. "Intoxicants! That's
the worst thing you can possibly do after a breakdown.
Simply the worst."

244
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"I know that now."
"Please, promise me you won't do that again."
"I promise," he said submissively to Sister Jeety, and
listening to his own voice, he realized that there were two
people inside his skin—Ylor the obedient and Creally the
maverick.
"Good. That's what I like to hear. We here at Mercy
Station Two care about you, Ylor. / care about you. You're
my prize patient. Please don't disappoint me."
"Don't worry. I won't." He rose to leave.
"By the way," she said, catching him. "The vleemer.
You've apparently forgotten that too. You must use the
vleemer. It's vital to your health. There's one over at your
workplace."
"Yes, I know. It must have slipped my mind." Ylor/
Creally banged the side of his skull with his palm. "Gee,
sometimes I wonder what's going on in this stupid head of
mine."
"No, no. You're not stupid, Ylor. Don't let anyone ever
tell you that. You're bright. Very bright."
"Thank you."
"Now, be good and Be One."
". . . One."
On his way to work, a woman in the Eta station stopped
him as he passed.
"Creally!" she exclaimed in shock.
He looked at her.
"It's me, Nuudey. Don't you recognize me? I thought
you were dead! They told us you and Sneeling had been
killed in an action over at the museum."
"I'm sorry," he said, looking her straight in the eye.
"You must have me mixed up. My name is Ylor." And,
turning from her confused look, he hurried away, never
once glimpsing back, refusing to succumb to the nearly
overwhelming temptation to ask how long ago it had been,
how long since he had been killed.

Inside the utility corridor, it was booming as usual. The
stench was sickening and the earth under his feet seemed
to shake as the pumps thundered away. Everything was
the same. Nothing had changed, of course, but him. The
museum, he thought in the locker room as he slipped into
his waterproof overalls, I have to get to it. Today. He
stooped down and pulled on an overboot.
"Hey, Ylor, you're looking a little whipped."
He looked up. It was Daraan, smiling teasingly.
"Heard you and Buunor really tied one on the other
night."
Creally gave a smile. A slow, guilty Ylor-smile.
When he poked his head into Buunor's cubbyhole of an
office, his thoughts were still taken up with the museum.
"Hey, Ylor. You're back?"
Creally eyed the holocon.
"Had a bit of a hangover, huh?" Buunor laughed.
He nodded.
"Did you good. Look at you. You look like a new man."
"I am."
"Just watch your ass. Some of those religious types were
over here snooping around yesterday. I didn't tell them
anything, about our little party and stuff. Don't you ei-
ther."
"You can count on me."
"Good. That's my springo. Oh, hey we've got a backlog
for you an arm long. Better hurry up and get your ass in
gear."
46

246
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
Creally left the office. After gathering up his tools, he
went out into the utility corridor and waited. A few min-
utes later, when Buunor left to check on a call, Creally
slipped back in. Closing the port, he went directly to the
holocon.
request? asked the unit when primed.
"Give me the layout of the utility corridor and connect-
ing conduits in Alpha."
There was a pause. If he could figure out the layout and
the code to the connecting locks, Creally was reasoning, he
could reach the museum virtually undetected. It was a
great idea, until the holocon responded with its request.
password? it said, holding.
"Plooma!" he muttered. They had the place secured.
Even Buunor with his supervisory level couldn't penetrate
the layout of another sector.
password? the holocon persisted.
His mind raced. There was no way to outsmart the
Mainframe. But—but—he decided to take a chance.
"P.M. clearance," he said. "Override password."
security level?
"Rank-two, Leemling, 126303874."
assembling, responded the holocon, and when the en-
tire layout of the Alpha utility corridor together with all its
subsidiary ducts and conduits appeared, Creally could
hardly believe it. Amazingly, he still had his security clear-
ance. They had zeroed him out, but someone had forgotten
to zero out his P.M. status, injecting human error into an
errorless system. Maybe they figured, Why worry about a
mindless Zero?
In the matter of a couple of minutes, Creally was able to
map out a route going from the utility corridor of Omi-
cron, through the central core, and right into the rear of
the museum. All he needed now was the key to the locks.
Though he could open any conduit port in Omicron, the
other sectors were a mystery. Or were they?

PERFECT PEOPLE
247
"Clear," he ordered. "Move into mathematical cryptol-
ogy mode."
stand by, responded the unit, and as Creally stood
poised before the holocon, he was overcome by a sense of
returning strength. He could lick the problem. Any prob-
lem. To open a lock in Omicron, any lock, one needed a
sequence of digits. The more removed from the utility cor-
ridor, the more additional digits one needed to penetrate a
port. Someone, someone like Buunor, for instance, had to
be able to move from Omicron to another sector, a bound-
ary area at least, in the event of an emergency or needed
repair. Each sector probably had its own sequence for its
locks, but there had to be some overlap, some common
ground.
mathematical cryptology mode available.
The sequence he was using seemed to follow a pattern.
Aside from the first four digits common to all the Omicron
locks, it looked like a progression of prime numbers. But
they jumped, seemingly without form. But nothing, noth-
ing in Creatoria was happenstance. It was all designed,
carefully programmed.
"I'm going to give a set of sequences of numbers," he
said. "I'd like to know what the generating element of the
progression is." And he gave the set, beginning with the
first element, which corresponded to the first lock outside
the corridor and, from there, progressed in a straight line.
An eye on the door, Creally waited as the Mainframe
labored to solve the very puzzle that it itself had created.
He waited. And waited.
"Come on. Hurry up."
in solution mode, responded the holocon as the
Mainframe tried and retried, iterated and reiterated the
sequences. Then it had it. The basic algorithm.
result, it announced, spouting the key. Except for the
first four digits, the sequences were, in fact, all generated
from prime numbers. From prime numbers factorialized.
Looking at the generating equation, Creally felt as though

248
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
he was peering into the mind that had set up the whole
system. And it looked as though—yes—as though all the
locks, regardless of sector, probably used the same generat-
ing element, the only difference being that four-digit prefix.
And the prefix seemed to be derived from the sector name
itself. Just how would he do it, he wondered, if he were the
one creating a prefix for each sector and he was lazy? Why,
he would digitize the name of the sector itself, of course. A
few minutes later, with the Mainframe's help, Creally had
a full generating element, prefix and all, which he was al-
most positive was the master key to Creatoria's hidden
tunnels and ducts. If it opened one single port in Alpha, he
reasoned, rushing off down a corridor, it would open any.
Soon he was hunched over and crawling in a narrow
tunnel, nearing the apex of Alpha sector. The tunnel split.
He took the right fork. There, before him, was the first
Alpha boundary, the first Alpha lock. He punched in. The
port opened with a slow creak, letting him in as if he be-
longed there. And he did.
Worming his way through a drainpipe deep in effluent,
Creally entered the rear of the museum. He hid his overalls
and overboots in a clump of brush, slipped unnoticed onto
one of the walkways, and melted into the flow of people. In
front of him, a dozen springs were being led around by a
woman describing the exhibits. Wide-eyed, the kids looked
up at the towering dinosaurs, screamed in delight when a
winged reptile unexpectedly swooped down close to the
path. On either side of Creally, couples were moving up
and down the walkways. Many of them, he found, were
heading for the exhibit of the Great War to gawk at the
newly unearthed missiles recently put on display. At the
Oriental palace a crowd stood waiting for the programmed
mass execution to begin. There seemed to be quite a num-
ber Toxes sprinkled around the museum. A few sat scat-
tered among the tables of the snack bar, slumped over
bowls of cold plank. A pair of them staggered arm in arm

PERFECT PEOPLE
249
down the walkway through the Urban Ghetto exhibit,
nearly forcing Creally off the path. Hunched over on a
bench sat another Tox, surreptitiously rolling some to-
bacco.
Creally moved systematically through the exhibits.
What was there in the museum that they didn't want him
to find? he puzzled, still without a clue. He couldn't spend
much more time there. Buunor would already be wonder-
ing what had happened to him. The only thing he was
getting for all the walking, it seemed, was a sharp pain
radiating up his spine. The museum was, as far as he could
see, as much a collection of weaponry as it was a history of
the Earth, as much a record of man's barbarity to man as a
sample of extinct nature. What was it that brought people
here? Were they just killing time or, like him, searching for
something?
He wandered down a path that took him past the
saltwater marsh. A sea breeze wafted in from the pounding
surf. He took a long, deep breath. It smelled fresh and
invigorating. Above, the sun was getting warm. It was like
the time he had spent wandering the lake bed at the solar
farm, he deliberately thought, trying to jog his memory,
but the gap remained. There was a young woman, nineteen
years old, an Imperfect at that, he told himself as he passed
through a dense, high-canopied jungle, but her very exis-
tence eluded him. It started to shower, and he made a dash
out of the rain forest and into the next exhibit. There was
an aboriginal area populated by strange people who wore
hides and feathers, lived in cones, and hunted with arrows.
Cones, he remembered and, without quite realizing it, was
wandering off the path, moving toward the open circle of
tents. To one side, a fire hissed. An old woman labored
over a steaming cauldron. A group of warriors sat on the
ground, fastening sharp hunting points to their arrows.
Approaching a large cone, Creally stopped. He stood star-
ing at it blankly. As if in a trance, he reached out, made
contact with the fabric, ran his fingertips down the

250
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
coarsely woven cloth. The roughness of the fabric provided
a fleeting connection to the delta, the cones in the delta.
The cones, in turn, led him to remember the tools he had
picked up. He could now feel them in his hand. In the
labyrinth of his mind, the tools sparked the memory of the
piece of fruit he had picked, soft and filled with a thousand
tiny seeds. The fruit led to a doll, a battered doll, resting in
the hands of a woman. Long fingers stroking it. Then
touching him. Caressing him. Then a smell. The smell of
her hair. A sensation. The touch of it brushing lightly
against his face. Juxtaposed against the coarseness of the
tent, he could now feel the softness of flesh, her flesh,
warm and smooth against his. Slowly a face began to take
form. A forgotten face. A young woman's face. High-
cheeked. Almond-eyed. Lips full and sharply chiseled.
Wendy. That look on her face, that unique look of inno-
cence and determination, gentleness and strength.
"Wendy," he uttered in a deep growl, assaulted by pangs of
loneliness and grief. She was gone, forever, leaving an ach-
ing void. Never again would he experience the anticipation
of those mornings when he arose excited with the thought
of being with her. Never would they have a chance to live
the life they had planned together. Her face brought every-
thing back. The massacre. Slipping her onto the transport
and then into Creatoria. The bleakness of the storage
room. The lessons. Her trying to run away. The last night
they had spent together in the museum. That night she had
still been alive and they had had the museum to them-
selves. It was all coming back. The P.M.'s chasing them.
The fortress. Sneeling. Wendy collapsing in his arms.
"Wendy, Wendy," he sobbed, oblivious to the people on
the walkway staring at him. And with her face still clear
before him, her dying words echoing in his ears, Creally
knew what he had to do—for her, for him, for the people
of Creatoria. Someone had to end the madness.
"Hey, you!" Creally heard an angry shout from behind.
Stunned, he turned. It was an attendant on the walkway.

PERFECT PEOPLE
251
"Yeah, you. You want me to call the P.M.'s?"
He shook his head.
"Then get off the grass!"
"This thing here?" he later asked another attendant,
pointing into a case of weapons. The device was small,
compact enough to fit into the palm of a man's hand.
"It's called a pistol. Actually a revolver. These are all
pistols here."
"Is it authentic?"
"Oh, it's real, all right," explained the man helpfully.
"And old! Comes, I think, from the nineteenth or twenti-
eth pre-War century. Hmmm, let me see." He bent over
and squinted. "Doesn't say, does it? I'm not sure. This is
not my exhibit really. I'm just covering for the day. But I
could find out for you, if you like," he turned back to
Creally.
"Oh, no. Don't bother. It's not important. I was just
curious," said Creally, eyeing the pile of cartridges ar-
ranged neatly beside the weapon and wondering if they,
too, were authentic—if they fit. He leaned closer to ex-
amine the weapon, almost touching the crystalline case
with his face.
"Hey, be careful. Don't go that close. You'll set off the
alarms."
"Oh. Sorry," he backed away.
"Don't want to have the P.M.'s come charging in here,
do we?" The man chuckled at the thought.
"No, sir."

"Where the flank have you been?" said Buunor, wringing
his hands. "This place is a madhouse. I've got a line of
barges a kilometer long waiting up there. Blasted upper
pumps are down again and the sludge is backing up all
over the sector."
"Sorry."
"Sorry?" Buunor mimicked, his face flushing a deep
crimson, "Great C. almighty! Where'd you disappear to? I
had an army out looking for you."
"I got stuck on a job," Creally mumbled and turned.
"What job? Where?" Buunor stormed after him as he
headed for a cage lift.
Creally stepped in.
"Go on. Hurry up!" Buunor slammed the cage shut with
a crash. "I've got a bunch of jerks working up there.
They've probably flanked things up even worse. Go on.
Push the button already!"
The cage started to climb.
"And don't think this is the end of it," Buunor called up
after him, following Creally's progress with the stump of
his finger as the cage rose in the column. "You I'll deal
with later! I give you a promotion. A raise. Treat you like a
human being. And this is what I get, huh? Another big
shot who doesn't want to work."
On the surface, pandemonium reigned. A half-dozen
workers were crowded around the main pump. Having in-
stalled the wrong size impellor, they had damaged the
bearings and were now loudly blaming each other. Put
47

PERFECT PEOPLE
253
under an overload, two of the smaller backup pumps had
also failed, and a team of men lay under them, sweltering
in their radiation suits. In a desperate attempt to keep the
sludge moving up from below, someone had used the re-
maining backup pumps to move the plooma into a solar
drying unit. In the confusion, however, they had forgotten
it and the sewage was now overflowing into the balers,
soaking all the dry bales. The hoverbarge captains stood in
their pilot houses, waving their fists and cursing. Surveying
the scene, it occurred to Creally how easy it would be to
sabotage the system, to go from utility corridor to utility
corridor, putting the pumps out of order and letting Cre-
atoria slowly drown in its own plooma.
"Hey, it's Ylor," called one of the men, spotting him.
Amid sighs of relief, Creally took over. Dispatching the
crew with a list of needed parts, he set to work alone,
dismantling the large pump. The hot sun felt good. It
seemed to soothe his nerves and clear his mind. I'll begin
tonight, he thought, begin my search for the Creator. He
would find Him, find Him wherever He was. And he
would kill Him. Creally pulled the chewed impellor free
from its shaft and held the dripping blade out in the sun
before him. Then, with an angry thrust, he flung it far
away. His eyes moved to the line of barges that stood hov-
ering by the balers. The barges, he thought, crawling back
under the pump to remove the bearings. Why hadn't he
thought of them before?
"Hey!" said Daaran when he came up on the surface,
struggling with the heavy pouch of replacement parts
Creally had ordered. "You crazy, Ylor?"
Creally looked up at him in bafflement. Then it hit him.
Not only was he not wearing a radiation suit, but he was
bare-chested, sitting there on the ground with his flesh ex-
posed to the sun.
Buunor stayed late. Creally stayed later, keeping pur-
posely far out of reach. When Buunor finally left for the

254
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
night, Creally took the cage down to the eighth level. At
the end of a series of tunnels, he located the point where
the unexplained pipes mysteriously passed through the
floor of the bottom level. For a moment he stood studying
them. From the placement of the valves, the direction of
flow was clear—it was coming up from below. Using his
wrench, he rapped the immediate surroundings. They were
solid, impenetrable. He tapped the pipes. Most of them
were full or nearly full with effluent. Only one was empty.
When he hit it, it rang like a bell, the sound continuing to
reverberate. Striking it with a quick blow, he placed his ear
on the floor and could hear the ringing filtering up from
below. The line seemed to run forward directly under him.
Tracing the ring, he shuffled forward on his knees until the
note died out. Going back to the pipe, he hit it again, yet
harder, then returned to the point where he had left off and
continued his trace. Repeating the process, it ultimately
led him through a series of turns and splits to a small
hatch fitted into the side of the distant conduit. It was a
manhole he had neither noticed before nor could recall
seeing pictured in the Omicron layout. It was locked, and
punching in a standard Omicron workers' code failed to
budge it. It was only when Creally tried the higher-level
sequence needed for a sector boundary that the hatch re-
leased. Creally squeezed through the hole. Inside it was
pitch black. He turned on his light. In the beam he could
make out a narrow duct that went straight down, a ladder
affixed to its side. Sealing the hatch behind him, Creally
climbed down the rungs of the ladder, the sounds of his
steps and breath echoing dully in the tight tube. His feet
reached the last rung, then made tentative contact with the
floor. Wedged vertically, he slowly lowered himself to dis-
cover a T at his feet, a narrow conduit running horizon-
tally below the eighth level. Along the top of the duct was
that same set of pipes. He shone his light down the duct.
Far ahead the yellow beam hit the wall of the tube where it
took a sharp turn. Creally crept into the tunnel on his

PERFECT PEOPLE
255
belly. Pulling himself with his elbows, he squirmed his way
forward, the beam of his light swinging dizzily from side to
side, the air in the tube steadily thickening and getting
harder to breathe. He paused ahead, stopping only for a
moment to roll over on his back and give his aching arms a
rest. He looked up. The pipes were still there, just above
his head, and on them was an alpha-numeric code unlike
that in any of the Omicron ducts or, for that matter, in any
of the other sectors. And the pipes were in poor repair,
leaking and dripping, he noticed as a rivulet of warm sew-
age ran down the side of his neck. Rolling over onto his
stomach, he wormed ahead. When he reached the turn, he
followed it, trying to preserve his sense of direction. He
took another turn. Then a third one. When Creally passed
through yet another twist, he realized that he was lost and
began to wonder if he had foolishly funneled himself into a
narrow duct in which there was no possible place for a
man to turn around. With barely enough oxygen to
breathe, he pushed on.
A few minutes later, dizzy and exhausted, he thought he
heard above the steady sound of dripping a faint but famil-
iar, high-pitched screech. Ignoring the blinding plooma
and sweat that trickled into, his eyes, he pulled himself
forward to a point where the sound was above him. It was
the distinct noise of a train of linked capsules, skittering at
high speed down a tube. He was under a main radial of the
transport system, he realized, moving toward the
Creatorian core. Another sharp turn and the tunnel he was
in suddenly widened slightly as it was joined by another
duct, filled with pipes. Pipes and optic cabling. Creally was
now crawling rapidly on hands and knees, still moving
centrally, small, subsidiary tunnels joining him on the left
and right with new pipes and optic cabling. The tunnel
widened again, and soon it was tall enough for him to
stand in, and he was sloshing ahead amid the dripping and
rumble.
A hundred meters down the tube, Creally found a lad-

256
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
der and a hatch in the ceiling. He climbed the ladder and
punched an access into the lock. When he pushed it open,
a wind caught the lid, slamming it open as a current of
fresh, cool air swooped in to greet him. Holding fast to the
ladder, Creally sucked in long, deep breaths, spit out a wad
of phlegm, then pulled himself up into the howling wind.
It was a ventilator shaft, he realized, nearly blown off his
feet. He forced closed the hatch and sailed along with the
flow of rushing air, feeling the muck and sweat caking on
his skin. Ahead, in the darkness, Creally noticed a large
shaft of light. When he reached it, he saw it came from an
overhead transom. Grabbing the grillwork with his fingers,
he pulled himself up. Through the mesh he saw a train of
capsules fly past him in a blinding whoosh. Then another
from the other direction. It's just a transport radial, he
thought, and was about to let go when something caught
his eye. A capsule, seemingly waiting off on a spur. But it
wasn't a spur. And it wasn't waiting. It was empty. The
capsule was parked by a locked port. A port where there
should not have been one. A port that anyone else, speed-
ing by, would never notice. The port opened. Straining,
Creally hung on to the mesh. Two figures, dressed in white
robes, stepped out. A turbaned male and a whimpled fe-
male. They were smiling. That Perfect smile of rosy con-
tentment he had seen on Sister Jeety's face. The pair got
into the capsule, punched in their coordinates, and flew off
into the main radial. Creally dropped to the floor and
rushed ahead. He was on the right track, he knew it. From
all sides, new cables were entering the conduit, the lines
growing in profusion, converging toward a central trunk
like the roots of a tree. He followed the ever-thickening
bundle until it suddenly plunged through the floor. And at
his feet was a line of louvres, flooding the duct with shafts
of brilliant light. When he fell to his knees and gazed
down, he saw that which was not supposed to exist: a
ninth-level room, brightly lit and clean, high-ceilinged and
spacious. Lining the walls were tall banks of switching cir-

PERFECT PEOPLE
257
cuits, a thousand color-coded lights blinking in asynchro-
nous urgency as white-robed clergy, talking in hushed,
clipped voices, serviced the circuits.
It must be a terminus, thought Creally, surveying the
room. Probably one of a number of such processors, feed-
ing the Mainframe.
Creally moved to the next transom and peered down. He
saw a Brother move to a port. From above the port a thin
thread of bright, red light reached out and touched his
helix. The helix shone and the port opened with a quick,
efficient swish. The man disappeared. Creally waited above
the port. It opened from the other side. As a Sister in
flowing white passed through, he caught a glimpse of the
stairs going down. Not nine levels, he thought, but ten.
Just as Wendy had prophesied. And getting to his feet,
Creally not only knew where the Mainframe could be
found, he was now sure he knew where the Creator Him-
self lived.
Following the path of a return air shaft, Creally readily
made his way back up to the seventh level. Once he had
discovered himself to be moving in the bowels of Central
Epsilon, it became evident that there had to be an easier
way to reach the terminus. Knowing now what he was
looking for, he could probably route himself directly
through the ventilation system.
Using a series of seventh-level sewage tunnels, Creally
cut across the Creatorian core. Within a half hour he was
back in the Omicron utility corridor. Going straight to
Buunor's cubbyhole, he secreted himself in the darkened
office. On the holocon, he brought up the layout of the air
system and studied it meticulously. Yes. It was feasible.
Through a series of short, interconnected conduits, he
could move from any convenient point directly into the
ventilation shafts. The point in question, tomorrow, would
be in Alpha. And the shafts were large. Big enough to walk

258
ROBERT LIEBERMAN
in. Run in. There would be no crawling. It would be easy.
Clean. And most crucially, fast.
Shedding his overalls and overboots in the locker room,
Creally could feel his mind quickening. As he hurried to
the tube station, he was still fitting together the last pieces
to his plan. The helix, he was thinking absorbedly as he
waited in line for a capsule. It's essential. He hoped to C.
he still had it. Standing in the queue, he was so deeply
engrossed in his scheme that he failed to notice the wrin-
kled noses of the other people, the way they exchanged
glances and kept their distance from him. It was only when
he found himself riding alone in an ascendor to upper
Beta, alone despite the large group that had been waiting
below, that it finally dawned on him. In all the excitement,
he had forgotten to clean up. Buunor's prophesy had come
true—at least partially true. He had reached a point where
he didn't even notice the stench. He had yet to come to the
point where he would miss it.
The helix. It wasn't beside the recliner where he was sure
he had left it. Nor was it on top of the holocon. Nor any-
where around the kitchen console. Creally tried to remem-
ber where he had put it but could only recall it sitting there
by the recliner, day after day. He rummaged through the
skins on his shelves, tearing out one after another and
shaking them free. He searched his boots, turning them
upside down and sticking his hand inside. Nothing. He
48

PERFECT PEOPLE
259
peered into the sanitizing compartment, checked the cup-
boards a second time. He began to worry. Maybe one of
the Zeroes or Toxes on the tech crew that maintained the
dwelling had liked it and snatched it. Maybe . . . Then,
suddenly, he remembered. Remembered the night he had
thrown it against the wall. Dropping to his hands and
knees, he searched the floor. No sign. Not under the
holocon. Nor the . . . Then he found it. Far under the
recliner. Nestled deep in the billowing dust of a corner.
Blowing it clean, he held it up and examined it as it shone
in the overhead light. Never had he thought he would be
so glad to see a helix. His helix. Gift from Sister Jeety.
Kindly, considerate Sister Jeety. Disciple of our beloved
Creator.
When Creally opened his eyes in the very early morning,
the helix lay on his chest, the clean gold glittering amid the
caked grime on his hands. His plans were now fixed in his
mind. Shedding his filthy skin, he stepped into the sani-
tizer. As the warm mist washed away what felt like
months of stench, he rehearsed his plan, going through the
steps that would bring him down to the tenth level and the
Creator. Once He was eliminated, and before anyone could
react, Creally would be moving back up through the venti-
lator shafts and connecting conduits, traveling freely in the
guts of Creatoria where there were no sensors to monitor
movement, no statistical recognition pattern to deal with,
no epsilons to worry over. There was nothing that he could
think of that might possibly stand in the way of escape.
Leaving the dead Creator, he would make a quick stop in
Omicron's utility corridor to use Buunor's holocon. With
it he would wreak havoc on the system, he, former mem-
ber of the plooma patrol with the brains and status of a
P.M. All around Creatoria, the plooma pumps would sud-
denly come to a standstill. The ventilator turbines and
ducts would fall silent. The ports and transport system, set
into P.M. High Alert override, would throw the city into

260
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
further chaos. Capsules would be sidetracked and
stranded. As alarms tripped, the Mainframe would be
flooded with data, spurious and real, of breakdowns and
backups and shortages. Simultaneously, every holocon in
every dwelling, in every corridor, in every single office in
Creatoria, would be carrying his message:
the creator is dead.
he was executed this morning for his com-
plicity in the murders of an entire tribe of
imperfects. for the murder, here in cre-
atoria, of an innocent girl-spring.
There would be names, dates, corroboration. Everyone
in P.M. Headquarters would know the evidence when they
saw it, would recognize how the society was built on lies,
see that he, Creally Leemling, near rank-1 P.M.—despite
word of his death—was still alive. And while the good
Perfects of Creatoria were digesting his message amid the
backed-up plooma and dead air, he would be moving up in
a cage lift to the surface, up to the barges and freedom. No
monitored suborb station. No turnstiles. No vouchers. Up
to the fresh air and sun and wind where it was only a
matter of commandeering a barge and driving off. All the
plan took was a little bit of nerve. And passion. His only
regret was that he hadn't done it earlier—earlier when
Wendy was still alive.
Creally ate a big breakfast, packed the helix and a hefty
supply of rations into his kit, and headed directly over to
Mercy Station Two.
"Ylor!" Sister Jeety looked up, startled, from her con-
sole. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," he said, giving her a slow smile. "I just
dropped by. To visit and say hello. That's all."
"Oh, how nice," she switched to her usual benevolent
visage. "What a pleasant surprise. Come, sit down."

PERFECT PEOPLE
261
"I can't stay too long. I have to go. To work."
"Yes, of course. And how's work going?"
"Interesting," he said. "I like it. It's challenging."
"Good."
"That's why I came by. To tell you I enjoy it."
"Excellent."
"And to tell you that I'm doing my work. And not wan-
dering any more," he pulled an infantile grin and watched
her face.
"Yes. We know."
"I want you to be proud of me." He beamed.
"We are."
"Well, Be One," he said, turning to leave.
"Be One." Sister Jeety rose to see him to the port. "And
come back to visit again. I like to be surprised like this."
"I might just do that," he said and, before leaving
Mercy Station Two, Creally passed Brother Loorey's quar-
ters where he helped himself to a set of clerical garb and a
neck chain, which he added to his already stuffed kit.
As the capsule sped down the tube, Creally dressed in its
tight confines, pulling the robe over his skin and wrapping
the turban around his head as best he could. When he
emerged in Central Lambda, the golden helix dangling on
his berobed chest, he checked himself in one of the over-
head traffic mirrors. It looked good. He could hardly rec-
ognize himself. Straightening his turban, he marched in his
49

262
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
flowing robe out of the tube station and across the govern-
ment plaza toward the P.M. complex. Now all that remains
is to procure two more items, he thought, striding with the
confident walk of a Brother, two more critical items to
make the plan a reality. He passed a Ministrator in the
standard browns and gave the man a smile of greeting that
was returned without a second glance.
Leaving the plaza, Creally was about to enter the P.M.
complex when he suddenly spotted Weems. The chief was
with Veena and they were coming out of the entrance di-
rectly toward him, Veena carrying a swaddled infant in her
arms. Subduing his immediate sense of panic, Creally kept
walking toward them, his eyes fixed straight ahead. As
Weems and Veena passed, neither of them gave the man in
the white robe more than a fleeting look.
In Headquarters, Creally walked straight up the main
corridor, passing in the process familiar P.M.'s and then
the dispatcher's booth—no one, not even Aarendeno, no-
ticing him. As far as they were concerned, he was just
another Brother visiting Headquarters on some errand.
P.M. Leemling of Domestics was dead. Following behind
Moorty as she conferred with another of his old squad
members, Creally felt like a ghost, able to wander the fa-
miliar corridors, all-seeing but unseen. And nothing
seemed to have changed. Weems's office was still where it
always had been, his holocon as usual uncleared, his plush
seat still bearing the imprint of his well-vleemed ass. Sink-
ing into the familiar seat, Creally punched in a quick mes-
sage:
dr. waaber. urgent. report immediately to
my office. weems.
After dispatching the holex to the P.M. Soma Station,
Creally quickly brought up Weems's personal Statistical
Recognition File. The chief's epsilon was low. Phenome-
nally low for a man who had engineered the murder of a

PERFECT PEOPLE
263
young, innocent woman, not to mention the decimation of
an entire tribe. A few perturbations of the basic function,
introduced via keyboard, however, and it suddenly became
high. Dangerously high. Too erratic for a man in his lofty
position. Poor Weems. How long would it take before they
zeroed him out?
By the time Creally reached the soma station, Dr.
Waaber was already rushing down the hall to Weems's of-
fice. After stepping in, Creally helped himself to the so-
matist's black bag, slipped it under his robe, and calmly
retraced his steps out of P.M. Headquarters.
Buunor caught Creally as he was coming in to work.
"You know, I was a little hard on you, Ylor," he said,
slipping his arm around Creally's neck. "Didn't mean to
chew you out like that yesterday." He gave a hard but
affectionate squeeze.
"You don't have to apologize."
"Who's apologizing? I was angry. I'm still a bit ticked
off. You can't just up and disappear like that on me. You
understand, huh?"
"Sure, Buunor. I understand."
"Ah, that's my old Ylor," he grinned and slapped
Creally on the back. "Just don't let it happen again, huh?"
"Never again. You can count on that."
"Atta springo! Hey, what's that you got in there?" he
asked, pointing to Creally's bulging kit.
"Oh, just some plank."
"That's one plooma load of plank," said Buunor percep-
tively. "What are you doing, going on a picnic?"

The museum was still that night. Deathly still, thought
Creally as he tiptoed across the sunlit stretches. The clean-
ing crews had left and the vast four-level halls were de-
serted, eerily quiet, life hanging in abeyance as mechanized
man and creature waited once again for the morning
crowds to arrive. But tomorrow would not be a day like
any other day. Tomorrow the Creator would be dead and
the history of the Earth would take a small twist.
Storing his kit in a cone, Creally took his tool pouch and
moved to the exhibit housing the pistols. Just about every-
thing, it seemed, was now set. He had stashed his rations
near the cage lift in the utility corridor. Buunor's holocon
was programmed for chaos, the routine needed only to be
initiated by a verbal password: Wendy. Packed in his kit
now were the helix, clerical garb, and somatist's bag.
Creally found the pistol in the case just as he had last
seen it, waiting for him like a little snub-nosed animal.
Moving around the case, he inspected the alarm. It was a
standard tuned circuit system, one in which a change in
the ambient inductance or capacitance brought about by
the proximity of a living body shifted the tuned frequency
and tripped off an alarm. Equipped with a wireless sending
unit, it was designed to transmit its alarm via the fiber
optic system to the Mainframe, which would in turn route
it to P.M. Headquarters. The sending unit itself, Creally
noticed, was hot-wired. Touching the box would be as dan-
gerous as trying to force open the case. But, as any P.M.
knew, where there was a sending unit, there had to be a
50

PERFECT PEOPLE
265
receiver—a receiver to encode the alarm signal, a receiver
probably common to all the alarms in the museum.
Leaving his tools, Creally went back to the central en-
trance plaza. There, off to one side, was the port to the
small administrative office. It was sealed with a simple
electronic lock that any rookie P.M. worth his memex
badge could easily open. He checked the door. No sensors.
No obvious signs of alarms. It was almost too good to be
true. He played with the lock. Threw in six digits. Tried
another six. When he got a tentative response, a near-im-
perceptible click in the mechanism, Creally felt he had the
full sequence and tried it. With a loud creak, the port
chugged open. Typical, thought Creally, stepping in and
seeing the receiver mounted on the wall. They had the
armaments rigged with delicate sensors but the sending
units stood vulnerable. It was as illogical as the blunder
that had let him retain his P.M. status after being zeroed
out. It was human laziness, sloppiness—the sloppiness that
would let him finish off the Creator.
After disarming the sensor, he went back to the gun
exhibit. With a small pry bar, he popped open the lock on
the case. Lifting the crystalline lid, he reached in and took
up the little weapon. In the palm of his hand, the ancient
metal felt cold and hard. One by one he picked up the
cartridges. They were surprisingly heavy. He counted out
eight of them and put them in his pocket. And he won-
dered, Would they work? Patiently Creally rearranged the
remaining weapons in the case, moving them in to fill the
gap so that, if one didn't actually count, it would appear as
if none of the pistols were missing. He carefully lowered
the lid, engaged the lock, and then returned to the office
where he rearmed the sending unit and sealed the port.
As he walked back to the cones, Creally examined the
pistol. It had a solid cylinder with holes bored in it, the
cylinder free to rotate. Obviously this was where the car-
tridges went. Enclosed by a small, elliptical guard was a
lever. Pulling it back with his finger, he saw how it re-

266
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
tracted a hammer, rotated the cylinder a notch, then let
the hammer fly against one of the holes. Primitive, he
thought. Primitive, but clever. And the weapon had a good
feel to it, he realized, weighing it in his palm. It seemed to
match the contours of his hand just like the tools in the
delta. On the side of the weapon, Creally discovered a
latch. When he depressed it, the gun popped open, expos-
ing the rear of the cylinder.
After arriving back at the cones, Creally reached into his
pocket and, one by one, loaded the cartridges into the cyl-
inder holes. He snapped closed the pistol, then lifted it and
directed its tube toward a tree. Easing back the lever, he
saw the hammer retract, and then there was a sudden
flash, a deafening concussion as the gun jerked up in his
hand and the wood of the tree splintered in a dozen direc-
tions. Stunned by the violence of the concussion, Creally
stood there looking at the shattered trunk, stood there try-
ing to imagine what that impact would do to the head of a
living deity.
Sleep. A few good hours was all he needed. In the early
morning, just as Creatoria was beginning to stir, he would
be on his way, moving inexorably down to the ninth level.
After finding some animal hides, Creally spread them on
the floor of Wendy's cone. When he lay down and smelled
the pungent odor of the furs, Wendy's presence became
real and palpable, and he was reminded of all that had
transpired what now seemed a lifetime ago. Closing his
eyes, he saw the tribe of Hairy Ones, young and old, wan-
dering up the gorge in the dappled light of morning, the
harmonious sound of their blended voices echoing to him
through the distance of memory. Before him, he saw the
smudged, tearstained face of a young woman, demanding
her release; saw her an instant later playfully mimicking
the walk of a Perfect. Wendy. Laughing. Sulking. Sitting
across a table from him in a restaurant, intent and serious.
Wendy. Talking to him of feelings of love, of her people, of

PERFECT PEOPLE
267
her God. The tone of her voice, the smell of her skin, the
gentle touch of her hand across his brow—as long as he
lived he would always remember her.
Waiting for elusive sleep to overtake him, Creally
thought he could hear her faintly singing, the sweetness of
her voice cutting him to the quick.
"What they did to our planet once pure and strong,
They did to its people ..."
"Oh, Wendy!" Creally called out into the emptiness of
the museum night. "Wendy, Wendy," he cried, desperately
clutching the furs. And, burying his face, he wept himself
to sleep.
This is it, thought Creally, his heart quickening as he
pushed up the hatch leading to the ventilator duct. The
howling wind caught the lip of the hatch and tried to rip
the handle out of his hand. Holding tight, he eased open
the hatch, moved in, and sealed it behind him. With his
back to the storm, he traveled with the flow, his body
acting as a sail. From Alpha, he moved radially inward,
changing ducts on two occasions, until he was hurrying
down the last shaft, the familiar transom lights appearing
just ahead on the floor of the tunnel.
Pausing at the first vent, he peered down. Directly below
him, a Sister stood stooped over a circuit rack, replacing a
51

268
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
module. At the next transom over the center of the large
room, he saw a Brother moving toward the port. Creally
followed the movement of the turban and, when the man
reached the third transom above the port, Creally watched
him leave, observing the way he positioned his helix up
and forward toward the red thread of light. As soon as the
man had exited, Creally quietly put down his kit. He
checked the vent. There were four bolts holding it. They
looked clean. Taking out his tool pouch, he cautiously re-
moved a wrench. On his knees, with his back hunched up
against the howling wind, he began unscrewing the first
bolt. With two fingers wedged through the mesh of the
louvre, he caught the nut as it came free and juggled it
back up through the vent into his other hand. Then the
second bolt. As he rotated the third bolt, his fingers slipped
and the loosened nut fell into the room, bouncing off a
cabinet and rolling across the floor.
"Brother Ckooler?" called the Sister by the circuit rack.
"Is that you?"
Creally pulled back from the transom.
"Brother Ckooler?" repeated the woman. Above the
sound of the rushing air, her voice seemed to Creally to
have a strange cadence.
Creally watched as she left her work at the far end of the
room and came around a large rack to stand at a point
directly under the transom. She looked around in puzzle-
ment, slowly moving her head from side to side. The nut
lay at her feet. Turning to leave, she stepped on it. She
stopped. Then bent down and picked it up. Creally held his
breath. Holding the heavy nut in her hand as if weighing
it, she again scanned the room. Then she placed the nut on
top of a cabinet and returned to her task.
Creally waited a minute, and when the woman was oc-
cupied, he quickly went to work on the last bolt. When he
had it free, the transom lifted neatly out of its frame. Plac-
ing the heavy grillwork quietly on the floor of the duct,
Creally went to his kit and took out the robe, turban, and

PERFECT PEOPLE
269
neck chain. Wrestling the billowing garb in the wind, he
dressed. Then out from his kit came the somatist's bag and
into it went the loaded pistol. Clutching the robe tightly to
his body, Creally sat by the open transom and waited,
waited for the room to empty.
Below him, the port opened. A Brother and a Sister
stepped in. The first woman, finishing her work on the
module, clicked closed the circuit rack and moved across
the expanse of the room. Creally watched as she walked
past the couple and toward the nut on the cabinet. Creally
tensed. The woman kept moving. She passed the cabinet,
went to the port, and exited. Creally drew a breath and
waited. A new Brother entered the room, carrying a clip-
board. Then yet another came in, and Creally began to lose
patience. The couple exited. The two men, conferring in
clipped, muted words, moved along a bank of
holoreadouts, making notes on their checklist. They
turned and walked back toward the exit, the red thread of
light touching their helixes, the port sliding open. As soon
as the port started its return trip, Creally dropped his so-
matist's bag down the open transom. As the port was seal-
ing, he was already through the hole and dangling by his
hands. Letting go, he fell to the floor.
Creally quickly straightened his garb and stepped to-
ward the port. Positioning his helix as he had seen it done,
he anxiously waited. The red beam leapt out and made
contact. The helix glowed a brilliant red. The port
hummed, then opened in a brisk swish.
Creally rushed out the passage, nearly running into a
young novice on his way in. The man, eyeing Creally's
large helix, bowed to him, and Creally instinctively re-
turned the gesture with a nod. Passing swiftly, he moved
down a set of stairs. Ahead was a series of intersecting
corridors. Bag in hand, he arbitrarily chose one. Two
quick turns and Creally found himself at the edge of a
large plaza filled with robed men and women moving
briskly across it in all directions. He looked around. It

270
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
appeared to be some kind of hub. But there was something
bizarre about the scene. It was the people, he realized. The
Brothers and Sisters. Despite their numbers, the plaza was
silent. No one was talking. They were all moving in pur-
poseful, straight lines, eyes fixed ahead, their gait slightly
stiff, almost mechanical. Mimicking their walk, Creally cut
across the plaza. At the other end, he chose a corridor and
followed it. It was lined with ports on both sides, and when
he caught a glimpse through one of them, he saw bank
upon bank of consoles and holocons, manned by silent,
white-clad clergy.
Creally took a turn at the end of the corridor. Then
another turn. The level here was bigger and busier than he
had envisioned. Far bigger. Where amid all this could the
Creator be hiding?
Taking another series of turns, Creally got lost and
ended up returning to the large plaza. At this rate, he
thought, it could take a week to find the Creator. Creally
explored another system of corridors, this time following
the general flow of traffic. It ultimately led him to a vast,
glass-enclosed bubble. Equipped with special triple
airlocks, it was a double-tiered sphere with ladders and
walkways. Inside, technicians clad in facemasks and dust-
free suits were servicing long blocks of blinking circuits. A
line of large tanks stood along the periphery of the bubble,
emitting swirling vapors of what looked like super-cooled
helium. Memory tanks, he thought. So here it was. The
Mainframe. It was from here—from the lines of silvered
disk readers spinning at blinding speeds, from the complex
networks of logic and switching circuits—that they were
running and managing the whole of Creatoria. These
clergy. These—then it suddenly occurred to him. The Cre-
ator. What if—what if there was no Creator after all?
What if, thought Creally, looking at the staggering dimen-
sions of the Mainframe, what if this is the spiritual embodi-
ment of the Creator? This the true legacy. Was there really
anything to prove that the elusive, silver-haired figure

PERFECT PEOPLE
271
called the Creator was human? Despite Creally's plan to
assassinate Him, He might be nothing more than a figment
of the first Creator's imagination, a holoimage generated
by the Mainframe, an animatron appearing once a year to
smile and bless and admonish the crowds in the stadium
before being returned to storage. The thought was stagger-
ing. It meant that an entire nation was worshipping a com-
puter!
Creally tightened his grip on the somatist's bag. Against
all this, a pistol would be meaningless. With a shot he
could kill a mortal, but not a Mainframe. Creally turned to
watch the Brothers and Sisters moving by the large, glass-
ine bubble. He spotted a young female novice approaching.
When she came close, he abruptly stopped her. She bowed.
"Excuse me," he said, a note of urgency in his voice,
"where do I find the Creator?"
The young novice seemed perplexed, as if not accus-
tomed to being approached.
"I'm Dr. Leemling from Mercy Station Two," he said,
raising the bag slightly so she could see it. "I've just got an
urgent call from the Creator's personal somatist."
The woman seemed even more puzzled.
"He is ill?" she queried. Though there was an intelligent
look on her face, the affect of her speech was distinctly flat,
oddly reminiscent of a Zero. She was a Zero, Creally real-
ized belatedly. They were all Zeroes. All the Brothers and
Sisters down here. A society of technically adept Zeroes.
"Yes. Ill," he repeated.
"You are a somatist?" she asked mechanically.
"Yes. A somatist. And you must take me to the Cre-
ator."
She looked at him.
"That's an order," he said, taking a chance.
"An order," she echoed flatly.
"Yes."
"But you are in the wrong area."
"Then take me to the right area."

272
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
Slowly she turned. "Follow me," she said.
Creally fell into step with her. "Hurry," he whispered to
her. "Time is of the essence."
She picked up her pace.
She took him back to the plaza, then down a long corri-
dor, through a series of security locks that Creally commit-
ted to memory, then a maze of complicated turns that he
struggled to remember. -
At the far end of a long hall, Creally spotted a wide
double port, guarded by two burly men in dark skins who
watched them approaching. They had the hardened look
of the men he had seen at the massacre, at the museum.
"Faster, faster," Creally urged, and he had her almost
running—which was what he wanted.
When they got to the guards, she stopped.
"The Creator is ill," she said breathlessly and without
prompting.
"Dr. Leemling." Creally waved the black bag. "I'm
from Mercy Station Two."
Seeing the bag, the men immediately punched open the
port and stepped aside.
Creally rushed in. Passing through a vaulted archway,
he entered a large, sumptuously carpeted chamber. The
room was outfitted with what looked like furniture of an-
cient vintage—chairs made of carved wood, armchairs
heavily upholstered with flowery fabrics. To one side stood
a long polished wooden table with a vase of living flowers
on it. Next to it was a cabinet that held tier upon tier of
crystalline drinking glasses reflecting the light from a line
of sparkling chandeliers. At the far end of the room,
Creally spotted a silvery mane just above the top of a deep
sofa. His heart quickened. It was the Creator. He was sit-
ting in front of a holocon.
A small, fine-boned man in the brown robes of a Minis-
trator suddenly appeared, giving Creally a suspicious look.
The man's eyes automatically went to the black bag, and
Creally, speaking without pause, said, "I'm Dr. Leemling.

PERFECT PEOPLE
273
I've been called in to see the Creator. Would you please
leave us alone." He spoke with such authority that the
man hardly hesitated.
When the man was gone, Creally opened his black bag
and took out the pistol. The Creator, absorbed in the
holocon, didn't seem to notice Creally's approach. He was
watching a preprogrammed entertainment. A sitcom, of all
things, Creally realized, the same kind of trash that Veena
used to watch. Creally crept closer until he was just a
couple of meters away from his target. Lifting the pistol,
he aligned the barrel and sight with the center of the silver
mane. He eased back on the trigger, beads of sweat form-
ing on his face. His hand began to shake. The head sud-
denly turned, revealing the full visage of the Creator.
When the old man saw Creally standing there with the
barrel of a weapon aimed at His face, He gasped in terror.
"What—what—what do you want?" He stammered, in-
stinctively shielding His face with His hands. "Please,
don't hurt me," He pleaded, His eyes frantically searching
the empty chamber for help.
Creally stared at the quivering old man. His face was
smooth and ageless, His complexion translucent and pasty,
eyes surprisingly springlike and innocent. Looking at Him,
Creally was reminded of the time he had visited the hatch-
ery with Veena. Just as the fetuses there had seemed to
possess the faces of old men, the Creator seemed to have
the face of a fetus, His features somehow untouched and
unformed.
"Please, I beg of you," He whined. "Don't hurt me."
His pistol leveled at the old man, Creally stared at Him
coldly. This was it, he told himself. This was the moment
he had waited for, planned for. There, before him, was the
very man responsible for Wendy's death. There, gaping
into the barrel of his weapon, was the single individual
most deserving of annihilation. Creally felt his finger on
the trigger. Preparing himself for the recoil, he began to
squeeze. Tighter. Tighter. The hammer began to retract.

274
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
Then, suddenly, as if with a will of its own, his finger froze.
He tried to traverse the last millimeter, but he couldn't.
Seeing the look of sheer terror etched on the old man's
face, something inside of him revolted. The killing didn't
make sense. It wasn't what was needed. Slowly he eased
off, watching the hammer return to its cradle.
"What is it you want?" asked the old man tremulously,
seeing His chance. "Whatever it is . . ."
And then, suddenly, Creally knew just what he wanted.
"The Ultimate Board," he demanded. "I want the Ulti-
mate Board."
"What?" said the Creator, disbelief almost overriding
fear.
"You heard me. Come on. Get up!"
"But I can't. I—I—I just can't walk in on them. They're
in the midst of a plenary session," He said, near tears, and
Creally knew he had guessed right. Tensing his arm again
as if getting ready to fire, he watched the old man stagger
to His feet.
"Come on," he demanded, and, holding the Creator by
the scruff of his robe, the barrel of the pistol pressed
against the base of the man's skull, he marched Him to the
port. When the port opened, there stood the Ministrator
with the guards. Seeing the weapon at the Creator's head,
they instinctively moved toward Him.
"Stand clear," ordered Creally, yanking the Creator
tighter with a menacing grip.
"Please don't do anything," urged the old man, trem-
bling under Creally's hold. "Just let us by."
Creally eased the Creator past the trio. "One move and
I'll puncture His head with a projectile," he warned. "Stay
where you are. I mean it!" Creally dug the barrel into the
man's neck. "Okay. Which way?"
"Here. This way," answered the Creator in a hoarse
whisper, leading him down the corridor. The trio was fol-
lowing them at a distance and, as Creally progressed down
the hall, Brothers and Sisters streamed out of the ports to

PERFECT PEOPLE
275
watch in puzzlement, unable to quite grasp what they were
seeing.
"Please, give us room," said the Creator, holding up His
hands, the sea of clerics parting before them. "Just let us
by. That's right. That's right," He repeated as if speaking
to springs.
Trailed by a growing crowd of the white-robed people,
Creally moved down a long incline, descending to a section
of bright, multicolor corridors. On the walls were murals
of pastoral scenes—domestic animals grazing in lush
meadows cut by winding streams. There were pictures of
hills and valleys and tall, deep forests that vied to capture
Creally's eyes. He struggled to keep his concentration on
the old man and the trailing crowd. Every time they passed
an intersecting corridor, he slowed to check for a hidden
guard.
"You know," said the Creator faintly, "this isn't at all
necessary. Whatever it is you want, I'm sure we can get it
for you."
"Keep moving," said Creally, constantly turning back to
check the ever-swelling mob. "And you people stay back!"
he shouted.
"We could find work for you here. Maybe a special job.
Yes," He said, trying to sound bright and enticing. "A
special job. You're obviously very bright and—"
"Cut the plooma!" hissed Creally.
The old man fell silent and obediently kept moving.
"Over there," said the Creator, signaling a coming turn.
When they came around the bend, Creally caught a
glimpse of pipes and shafts plunging through the floor.
Ahead stood a bank of ascendors, the indicators on their
control board showing only one direction: down.
Creally turned around again to catch the crowd slipping
up on him. "Back! I warn you!" he yelled, and they
stopped short, waited until Creally moved his hostage
ahead, then snuck up again.

276
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
With the Creator still tight in Creally's hold, they ar-
rived at a large-port. The Creator stopped.
"This it?" asked Creally.
The old man nodded nervously.
"Punch in," he ordered.
The Creator reached up to touch the keyboard, then
hesitated.
"Come on! Fast!"
With His small, bony fingers, He punched in the secret
access. The mechanism clicked. The doors parted. Creally
pushed his hostage forward. Took four steps in. Then
froze.
"Oh, no," he gasped in astonishment. There, seated
around a large, old wooden table sat the Ultimate Board.
Ten people. Men and women. All of them Hairy Ones. He
couldn't believe his eyes. What were they doing down
here? Then it hit him. Weems. The delta. The tribe. Hairy
Ones still killing Hairy Ones. But what had Creatoria to
do with . . . ?
A stunning blow suddenly hit Creally's arm, numbing it
to the shoulder. His gun clattered to the floor. Before he
could react, Creally felt himself grabbed from behind.
When he turned to look, the two big guards already had
his arms wrenched behind his back and the Creator was
quietly slipping away. Hanging helplessly in the guards'
powerful grip, Creally stared back at the table of Hairies.
"Get him the hell out of here," ordered one of the board
members with a perfunctory wave of his hand.
As Creally felt himself dragged from the room, every-
thing slowly began to make sense. The elevators and pipes
and shafts that went still farther down. The men and weap-
ons who had mysteriously appeared at the delta massacre.
Wendy's stories of Dor and his henchmen. The elimination
of the other tribes.
Out in the corridor, the mob of clerics stood silently
waiting. As he was yanked out through their midst,
Creally heard them speaking for the first time, whispering

PERFECT PEOPLE
277
to one another. "Revolutionary," they were mumbling.
"Revolutionary." And though Creally had never heard the
word spoken before, he knew what it meant. Knew what it
meant and liked the sound of it. Revolutionary, he thought,
desperately clinging to the word as they whisked him away
from the crowd and down a long, strange corridor. Revo-
lutionary.
The room he was taken to was oddly reminiscent of the
one Creally had occupied in Mercy Station Two. It was
white and curved and devoid of any corners or edges. Un-
like the room in Mercy Station, however, it possessed no
recliner or helix, but rather a hard, rigid chair stationed in
the center of the chamber, the device outfitted with auto-
matic restraints. It was the same kind used in P.M. Head-
quarters to subdue violent Toxes during questioning. At
the far side of the room, sitting on a small platform, was a
console. It was equipped with a holo output and reminded
Creally of his old workstation back in Headquarters.
The guards stripped off his robe. Then, slamming him
into the chair, they slipped his limbs into the restraining
sleeves. The back of Creally's neck was fitted into a padded
vice and then they clamped all the restraints tight so that
he was forced upright against the hard back of the chair,
the sleeves cutting into his flesh. When he was sure they
were finished, they surprised him by putting an additional
band around his chest and tightening it so that he could
52

278
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
hardly take a full breath. Then, assured that he could not
escape, they exited the port, leaving Creally alone in the
room. For a moment he fought the bonds, trying to buy a
little space, but he couldn't budge them. He strained to
look around. Spotting what looked like a modem sus-
pended above his head, he realized they were going to zero
him out. Those rotten flankers, they weren't going to get
rid of him that easily, he told himself. Like old Zraak, he
was an incorrigible. No matter how many times they tried
to zero him, no matter how deeply they did it, he would
bounce back. Come back to haunt them.
Time hung heavy. He could feel the restraints slowly
strangling the circulation to his limbs. In what he knew to
be his last moments, he tried to fit together the pieces to
the puzzle. These Hairies below Creatoria. The Zero-like
clerics. The feeble and powerless Creator. The pipes and
ascendors that seemed to go even deeper than this level.
Creally tried to budge the restraints, but it was hopeless.
While he wiggled his fingers and toes to keep them alive he
was thinking, thinking about that dream. The one in which
Peleey had spoken to him. Now, finally, he understood
that the "others" his brother had mentioned were not the
tribe he had discovered out at the solar farm but rather
these people here, these Hairies below Creatoria. He
thought about Wendy too. About the story she had told
him of Dor and his roving army. About the other tribe that
supposedly existed somewhere on the Indian subcontinent.
And he thought about his existence, the one that had
passed and the prospect of facing life again as a Zero.
"Revolutionary," he muttered, trying to give himself cour-
age. Revolutionary. The word felt right. But . . . but
what if they didn't zero him out? What if they just killed
him as they had Wendy and the others? What earthly good
would it be to be a revolutionary then?
What the flank were they waiting for? he wondered as
time passed and still nothing happened. Why didn't they
get it over with?

PERFECT PEOPLE
279
Long minutes later, the port whisked open and two male
clerics entered. Before Creally realized what was happen-
ing, they pried open his mouth with a tool and with a
coarse swab took a quick swipe across the inside of his
cheek. Then they cut off a lock of hair.
"What are you doing?" Creally asked, wiggling his fin-
ger to hinder them as they tried to clip off a piece of his
nail.
They gave no response, and when they got the clipping
they turned and left. The chamber fell silent again, the
only sound a faint hiss of air. Creally tried to turn his head
enough to locate the louvre but couldn't spot it. Again the
wait. Why the wait? And why the samples?
The port opened again and this time two people stepped
in. A man and a woman. The man was tall and had a full
dark beard. The woman was short and stout, an Imperfect
if ever there was one. The woman eyed him suspiciously,
then seated herself at the console. The man stepped behind
Creally, out of view. When Creally heard the creaking
above him, he looked up and saw the modem being pulled
down over his head. He struggled to avoid the helmet.
Without expression, the man pressed a button at the side
of the chair, holding it until the restraints contracted to the
point where Creally could barely breathe. He then fitted
the modem tightly down on Creally's skull, snugging it up
until the points dug into his scalp. So they really were
going to zero him out.
"Okay," announced the woman at the console.
"Ready."
Creally closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. If
they zero me, he reminded himself, I'll be back. No matter
what, I'm going to bounce back. He braced himself for the
inevitable flash of white, hot light. But it didn't come. In-
stead he heard the bearded man pose a question.
"What tribe are you from?" he asked succinctly. His
speech had a tinge of Olderage to it. It sounded almost the
way Wendy had spoken.

280
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
Creally opened his eyes and looked up at him. The
Hairy One's eyes were blue, as light as the sky had been
above the solar farm.
"What tribe are you from?" he repeated, bringing his
face close to Creally's. The man's skin was rough and
pocked. The dark hair on his face grew in tight curlicues
all the way down his neck. "Talk," he ordered, "or we'll
make you talk. What tribe?"
Creally swallowed. "No tribe."
"What's your name?"
"Leemling," he answered quietly. "Creally Leemling."
"What's your real name?"
Creally shot a nervous glance at the woman observing
him from the console.
"Hey, I asked you a question and I want an answer!"
shouted the man, grabbing Creally's head and rotating it
back toward him, his nails burrowing into Creally's jaw.
Despite the pain, Creally looked him straight in the eye.
"Your name!"
"Leemling. Creally Leemling."
"Cut the shit!" snapped the interrogator, employing the
word that Wendy had used. "You're a friend of Santiago's,
aren't you?" he hissed. He brought his angry face close up
to Creally's and, when he uttered his words, Creally could
feel his breath against his cheek. It had a strange, chemi-
cal-like odor to it. "One of Erdman's gang, huh?" he in-
sisted. Then, loosening his grip on Creally's face, he turned
and stepped away. As Creally was about to catch his
breath, the Hairy suddenly spun on his heel. "What about
Rewald?" he demanded, leveling an accusatory finger at
Creally. "Does the name Rewald mean anything to you,
huh?"
Silence.
"What about Comrade Luther? Comrade Miller?
Brother Freeman?" he probed.
"I'm not getting anything, sir," announced the woman
from behind her console.

PERFECT PEOPLE
281
Getting what? thought Creally.
"All right," ordered the bearded man, "give me the first
sequence." The lights in the chamber dimmed and sud-
denly a series of bright holographs were flashed out in
front of Creally. The images that appeared in rapid succes-
sion were all those of Hairy people.
"Do you know this one? Or this one? Or this?"
There was a shot of a benign-looking old Hairy, smiling
and holding aloft an ancient weapon. A shot of a dark,
attractive young woman in camouflage garb who looked a
little like Wendy. A middle-aged man with bony features.
An adolescent with closed eyes and waxy complexion, ob-
viously the face of a corpse.
"Or this one? Huh?"
"Nothing, sir," uttered the woman in the dimness. "I'm
not getting a thing above baseline. Either he doesn't know
them or he's outsmarting us."
Without releasing his eyes from Creally, the man
pressed on. "Do you know any of these places?" he asked
as a new series of holographs materialized. "Have you ever
been here? Or here? Or here?"
Creally viewed the holographs in amazement. One was
that of a warren of caves carved into a mountain side.
Another, a large village of cones. There was a settlement of
small, rectangular buildings with wheels under them, then
a shot of an aboveground city that stood partially in ruins.
These places, Creally was thinking, where are they? And
these people—Brother Freeman, Rewald, Comrade Miller
—who are they?
"He's questioning who the people are," said the woman,
sounding perplexed. "He doesn't even know who they are.
He doesn't—"
"Shut up!" snapped the interrogator. He turned his
steely eyes back on Creally. "Run him through the weap-
ons series," he called out. "See if he reacts."
Creally was then exposed to a barrage of images. He
recognized only a few of the devices, the antipersonal stuif.

282
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
There were a couple of ancient guns, some small hand-
launched missiles he had spotted in one of the cones, one
of the long, tubular weapons he had seen mounted on the
ships of the attack squadron at the delta.
As the series of holographs continued, Creally caught
through the corner of his eye the port opening. A young
female Hairy dressed in a white lab smock stepped into the
chamber. She waited quietly until the holographs stopped.
"I've got the report, sir," she said, handing Creally's
interrogator a few leaves of paper.
The man shuffled through them and frowned.
"It doesn't check out," she ventured cautiously. "He's
apparently a Nearly Perfect."
"Nearly Perfect?" echoed the man. "Don't be ridicu-
lous! Go back and check again." He shoved the papers
back at her.
"But—"
"Go back and check it again, I said. And send in Dibbs.
I want to see him personally. I want to find out what the
hell's going on over in that lab of his."
"Yes, sir."
The man turned back to Creally. "Look, I've had
enough! I want answers now. Do you understand?"
Creally tried to match his gaze. The restraints were so
tight, his every breath hurt. His arms and legs had long
since gone numb.
"We can make it uncomfortable for you. Very uncom-
fortable. You think I'm joking, don't you?"
Creally didn't know what to say.
"Okay, give him a four," said the interrogator. And
while Creally was still wondering what it meant, he sud-
denly felt his flesh get warm. It got hotter and hotter and
then began to burn. He could actually hear his skin siz-
zling, peeling away from his body, the air filling with the
smoke of burnt flesh. Despite himself, Creally let out an
agonized howl.
Almost as abruptly as it started, the burning subsided.

PERFECT PEOPLE
283
He expected to see his skin burned raw, but when he
caught a glimpse of his hands pinned at his sides, they
looked normal. Everything seemed normal but the relent-
less pounding of his heart. He fought to catch his faltering
breath.
"So who are you?" asked the interrogator.
"Leemling, Creally Leemling, 1263038—"
"Give him a seven," said the man, turning in disgust.
Suddenly Creally felt two pointed blades inserted into
his eyes. He tried to yank his head free, but the knives
pierced right through his eyeballs with an audible pop and
continued moving into the rear of the socket, pressing up
against his brain. Creally screamed for his life.
The knives withdrew. The pain slowly subsided. Creal-
ly's vision was blurred and there was hot liquid running
down his face. My eyes. They're gone! he thought in hor-
ror, then realized that he was crying and the stream was
just tears.
"Who are you?"
"I told you," he wept, fighting for control. "I'm telling
you the truth."
The man was about to turn back to the console when the
port opened and a young man, also in a lab coat, stepped
in.
"Sir," he said, "I'm sorry but it checks out. I've person-
ally run it five times. He keeps turning up a Nearly Perfect.
His name is Leemling. He's apparently an ex-P.M."

After they had postively confirmed his identity, their atti-
tude toward Creally changed abruptly. They loosened his
restraints, even went so far as to remove the modem. Oth-
ers, apparently high-level Hairies, came into the chamber
to stand and gawk at him.
"A Nearly Perfect," they said, shaking their heads in
amazement. "Can you imagine that."
The interrogator seemed particularly intrigued by him.
"Tell me," he asked, stroking his beard, "why did you
do this? How in the world did you get the idea?"
Creally just looked back at his torturer.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you any more," he
said, now employing a patronizing tone. "And there's
nothing you need to hide. We know everything already. We
even found your program, your 'Wendy' program." He
smiled.
As the others in the chamber stood exchanging whis-
pers, the bearded man fetched a vessel and put it to Creal-
ly's mouth.
"Go on, take a drink. It's safe," he laughed.
Creally felt the cold rim of the vessel against his parched
lips. He took a small, tentative sip. It was just water. He
swallowed the soothing liquid in desperate gulps.
"So tell me, already. How did you get the idea?" asked
the man, passing the vessel to one of his subordinates.
"You mean, why?" he answered hoarsely.
"Yes, why? And how?"
53

PERFECT PEOPLE
285
"I did it because you murdered a whole tribe of people,"
he said, facing the small congregation of officials.
They looked at each other.
"He must mean that operation by Special Forces over in
sector three oh one," suggested one of them.
"Yeah, that makes sense," chimed in the stout woman.
"He picked out all the right weapons."
Special Forces, thought Creally, feeling the remnants of
throbbing in his eyes.
"Where'd you get the pistol?" asked a tall woman
Hairy. She was as tall and skinny as the technician was
short and stout, and she wore a pair of glassine lenses in
front of her eyes, apparently to correct her vision.
"Where?"
He hesitated. Suddenly Buunor's words popped into his
mind: Smile. Smile your ass off. Never let 'em know what
you're thinking.
"Where?" the woman persisted, staring unblinkingly at
him through her lenses.
"The museum," he answered finally.
"Hcw'd you get it out?" she asked.
"I was a P.M. I know the alarm system," said Creally,
deciding to take a tact of momentary honesty. He would
lie, he reasoned, only when it served his purpose.
"Check it out," muttered one of the male officials.
The stout woman went to her console. In less than a
minute she was back.
"They're actually missing one," she nodded. "It
checks."
"How'd you get down here?" asked the interrogator.
"How'd you breach security?"
Creally told him about the plooma tubes, how one could
move through Creatoria undetected, even into this lower
level.
The Hairies turned to each other and nodded, as if tak-
ing careful note.
"Who else is working with you?" asked the tall woman.

286
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"Two others," answered Creally, looking straight
through her lenses and into her eyes. "They're waiting for
me," he said unblinkingly.
"Where?"
"In the plooma tube."
"Which tube?"
"The one on this level," he said, thinking quickly.
"Where?"
"It's down the corridor by the Mainframe."
"Can you show us?" she asked.
Creally fell silent.
"Come on," said the interrogator. "We don't have to go
through all that again, do we?" he asked, looking purpose-
fully at the modem.
"Show us!" This time it was a command, not a question.
Creally nodded obediently.
They sent for the two burly guards. When the restraints
were released, Creally was lifted to his feet. He tried to
walk, but his legs barely functioned.
"This way," he said, staggering toward the port, each
arm clasped in the tight grip of a guard.
Creally led them out of the portway and into the hall.
As he slowly walked up the long corridor, his eyes
searched out the surroundings.
"This way," he said, taking a left.
"I thought you said near the Mainframe?" questioned
the skinny woman.
"Well, sort of," Creally explained vaguely. "You've got
to go this way first."
"Let him show you," someone in the rear of the proces-
sion muttered sternly.
Creally led the group of Hairies around another corner.
Then another left, and a right. They passed into a small
plaza filled with robed clerics who didn't seem to notice
them. Then up a small ramp.
"He's taking us on a wild goose chase," said the interro-
gator.

PERFECT PEOPLE
287
"I know where I'm going," said Creally. "It's here," he
exclaimed suddenly, pointing to a hatch in the floor.
The group gathered around the hatch.
"It's sealed," said the stout woman who had been fol-
lowing along.
Creally didn't respond.
"All right, get some tools. Get someone to open this.
Hurry up," said the skinny woman.
One of the guards left Creally's side and quickly re-
turned with a set of wrenches. He began to work the nuts
free, one after another. When they were all loose, he
reached for the handle and pulled. The hatch opened with
a creak. Everyone, including Creally, leaned forward and
stared in. The duct was completely filled with dark, gur-
gling plooma, flowing swiftly ahead.
"They can't be in there," snapped the interrogator.
"Oh, they are," said Creally ingenuously.
"Where?"
"In here," he said, slipping free of the guard's hold.
"Right in here." And as everyone stared into the murky,
rushing liquid, Creally took a deep breath, flung himself
into the tube, and was immediately swept away.
All over Creatoria, the ducts and tunnels of the city were
crawling with search crews. In the Omicron utility corri-
dor, two high-level P.M.'s were stationed in Buunor's of-
fice to oversee his actions. Under strict orders, Buunor had
54

288
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
all his people deployed, checking the myriad of interlacing
conduits in his sector. Since early that afternoon, the
P.M.'s had been keeping the utility corridor in a state of
frenzy. They had also kept Buunor jumping, and his toler-
ance was wearing thin.
"Come on, guys, give me a break already," said Buunor,
addressing the two Perfects hunched over the holoimage in
his tight office. "I've got my hands full as it is. We've got
two pumps down now. There's a major blockage building
on the seventh. I can't keep my people off their regular
jobs all day so you can hunt around for some creep. Who is
this guy anyhow? I mean, what's the big deal?"
The P.M.'s didn't respond. They were still immersed in
the schematic, intently watching the constellation of dots
moving through the guts of the Omicron system.
"You want a plooma duct to rupture like it did last
month in the Xi Mall?"
"Punch up the detail on the fourth level again," said the
P.M. with deeply bronzed skin. Of the two, he was slightly
taller and seemed to be giving all the orders.
"But we just looked at it!"
"Do like you're told," warned the underling.
"All right, all right. Just don't blame me when the stink
starts to spread." Reluctantly Buunor brought up the de-
tail of the fourth level.
"What about 136-4, sir?" the second P.M. asked
thoughtfully.
His superior nodded.
"I've got two men over in 120-2," injected Buunor. "If
you wait a couple of minutes they'll be right there."
"Take the ones who're finished in 170," said the first
P.M., touching the pinpoints of light with his finger, "and
move them up here to 134, then 136."
Letting out a long, exasperated breath, Buunor signaled
the new assignment and watched as the dots altered their
course and slowly began to trace their way back toward a
central catwalk.

PERFECT PEOPLE
289
"Now, take the team on the seventh and move them
down to—" The man stopped in midsentence. The two
P.M.'s simultaneously put their hands to the dispatch but-
tons in their ears. Exchanging quick glances, they suddenly
turned from the holocon.
"Keep on top of things," said the superior as they
turned and rushed for the port. "We'll be right back."
"Sure. Sure," said Buunor, watching them leave. "I'll be
waiting for you, you meddling mother-flankers," he mut-
tered under his breath. When he was sure they were gone,
he plopped down in his chair. Leaning far back, he took a
deep breath and let the air flutter noisily through his lips.
Then, spinning around, he started hunting through the
rear of his cluttered filing cabinet. Between a thick stack of
disks, his hands made contact with a familiar vial. He was
about to pull it out when he heard a rustling behind him.
Turning his head, he saw a plooma-caked figure slip
through the open port frame.
"Holy plooma!" uttered Buunor. "You! It's you they're
looking for!"
Creally reached around to the control switch and
quickly sealed the port behind him. "I need your help,
Buunor," he whispered.
"Help? They're going crazy here. What in C.'s name
have you done?"
"Nothing, really," he answered, leaning exhaustedly up
against the port jamb. "Nothing, except I saw too much."
Buunor seemed troubled. "Look"—he struggled—"I
hate to do this and everything"—he moved toward the
P.M. call button on the holocon—"but I've got to turn you
in. You know what'll happen if I don't."
"Bunnor, wait. Listen to me," Creally held up his hands.
"Look, Ylor—"
"My name isn't Ylor," said Creally, and saw Buunor
hesitate. "My name is Leemling. Creally Leemling."
"Hey, springo, I really like you. I mean it—"

290
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"I was a P.M.," said Creally, and watched the stunned
look registering on Buunor's face.
"P.M.?" he repeated.
"Yeah, a P.M. A second rank. They zeroed me out."
Buunor's face fell.
"Come here," said Creally, trying to coax him away
from the holocon. "I've got to tell you something."
"Tell me what?" asked Buunor, remaining fixed.
"The pipes. You know the pipes on the eighth?"
"Yeah, yeah. I know the pipes."
"They go down. Down under the eighth."
"So what's the big deal? I've always known that."
"But didn't you ever wonder where they went?"
Buunor shrugged.
"In every utility corridor in the city, in every sector,
there're pipes just like ours. They go down. They feed a
city. A city under this city."
"What city? What the flank are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about Imperfects. Hairy Ones. They're
down there below the eighth. I saw them myself. That's
why they're after me. Buunor, this place is not being run
by Perfects. It's being run by Hairies."
Buunor now looked confused, and Creally wondered if
he was getting through.
"Buunor, everybody in this flanking city from the eighth
level up is a slave. A slave to the Hairies under us. The
Perfects, you deal with them. You know what they're re-
ally like. They're nothing more than servants, perfect ser-
vants."
"I don't understand what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do," insisted Creally. "And if you think about
it, you know that everything we've ever been told has been
a lie. The Creator. Do you really think he's running this
show? Tell me, have you ever seen Him?" he asked tensely.
"Well . . ."
"Have you ever talked to Him? Do you know anybody

PERFECT PEOPLE
291
who has? Well, I have. And He's nothing. Just an old man
who's scared of the Hairies."
A call came up on the holocon. Buunor didn't answer,
and Creally knew he had a chance.
"Radiation suits," said Creally quickly. "How come you
never wear one when you're on top?"
"Sometimes I—" Buunor started to explain.
"We both know," Creally exclaimed impatiently, inter-
rupting him, "that you don't need one. They just tell us
that to keep us down here. We're as good as Zeroes. Worse,
in fact, because we think we're smart."
The holocon kept beeping.
"The Nearly Perfects," said Creally, slowing down to let
it sink in, "the people like you and me—we can feel. We
can still think for ourselves. We're the last link to the old
world as it was before Dor."
The holocon was now beeping urgently. Buunor turned
to look at it. He punched in on voice mode and Creally
held his breath. "Yeah, what is it?"
A disembodied voice sprang back. A P.M. "He's been
spotted," said the tense voice, "moving into your sector.
Have you people found anything?"
Buunor looked at Creally. For an instant he hesitated.
"Found what?" he asked.
"You know. A man coming out of the pipes. Don't play
cute with us."
"Why are you looking for him?"
"It's none of your business. Just do like you're told. If
you spot this guy moving through your ducts, call us right
away, got it?"
"Yeah, I got it. You told me already," said Buunor an-
grily, punching off the connection.
Buunor turned around and looked at Creally as if weigh-
ing him. "What do you want from me?" he asked quietly.
"Help me. Help me to get out."
"Out? To where?"
"Up to the surface."

292
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
"The surface?" he repeated incredulously.
"Yes. There're other people out there. I've seen shots of
them. And other cities. There've always been other people
out there. There never was a Great War." And in a rush of
words, Creally told him about the tribe he had first discov-
ered at the delta. About their massacre by the Special
Forces and the girl-spring he had snuck into Creatoria. He
was telling him all of this, he explained to Buunor, so that
someone else would know the truth if he didn't make it
out. "You can live up there. People live up there," he kept
insisting. "They walk on the surface, not live in tunnels
like little insects. They breathe air, not this recycled gar-
bage. The things they eat are grown off the soil and taste
good, not like this plooma-tasting plank they feed us."
The holocon was beeping anxiously again, but neither
man seemed to hear it.
"You don't really have a chance," said Buunor. He sud-
denly looked tired and spent. "They've got this place tied
up so tightly, you wouldn't believe it. It's just a matter of
time—"
"I do have a chance. I do have a chance if you help me.
We could both get out," said Creally, trying to budge Buu-
nor. "We could get out together."
Buunor looked at him seriously, then shook his head.
"No," he said. "No, we can't."
Creally felt his heart sink. All this. All this talk for noth-
ing.
"Not both of us," said Buunor.
Creally slowly smiled.
"If I stay," said Buunor thoughtfully, "maybe I can get
you out. Let me try something. Get down behind here," he
said, yanking out his file cabinet. Creally ducked into the
narrow space behind it. Turning to the beeping holocon,
Buunor bypassed the incoming call and pushed the emer-
gency P.M. button. Immediately he was in full visual
mode.
"Go ahead," said the P.M. in front of him.

PERFECT PEOPLE
293
"We've got him!" Buunor shouted excitedly.
"Where?"
"He's on the Pi border. My men are holding him."
"Give me the coordinates."
"0-2-426-5."
"Good," said the P.M., breaking contact.
Buunor punched open the port, stepped out, and quickly
sealed it behind him.
Moving out from behind the file cabinet, Creally went to
the port. With his ear pressed against it, he could hear
Buunor shouting to his people, ordering them down to the
far side of the sector, moving everyone off the catwalks and
spans, his voice booming above the endless roar of the
pumps.
"Come on, hurry up," whispered Buunor when the port
opened again. Creally dashed with him toward the nearest
cage lift. Nervously Buunor scanned the corridor from end
to end, from bottom to top, then turned back to Creally.
"You know," he said, "I was right from the beginning. You
really were the best man I ever had."
Creally felt Buunor's hand on the back of his neck.
Though that hand was coarse and lacked a finger, the
touch was gentle. The image of his father fleeted through
his mind.
Buunor pushed Creally into the cage and slammed the
gate shut. Punching the button on the outside, he sent the
lift flying upward.
"Take care," he called out, and waved. "You'll know
where to find me when you need me. I'll be here to open
the ports for you when you're ready to come back."
The cage continued to climb, moving steadily upward
through the levels. Fifth. Fourth. Third . . . Buunor,
running back to his office along the floor of the utility
corridor, was rapidly shrinking to a small dot.
Above Creally's head, the roof began to part, shafts of
bright sunlight suddenly flooding the cage as it broke

294
ROBERT LIEBERMAN!
through the surface and emerged into the terrestrial day.
Creally took a deep breath of a dry, warm wind as it blew
across his face, caressing him. The wind, he thought. It was
Wendy.

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