DENA
“This former factory is where we salvage equipment for the Millenium Project. You can see we’ve really hardly begun. We can’t start building true robots, as Cyclops’s plans call for later on, until we’ve recovered some industrial capability first.”
Gordon’s guide led him down a cavern of shelves stacked high with the implements of another era. “The first step, of course, was to try to save as much as we could from rot and decay. Only some of the salvage is kept here. What has no near-term potential is stored elsewhere, against a future day.”
Peter Aage, a lanky blond man only a little older than Gordon, must have been a student at Corvallis State University when war broke out. He was one of the youngest to wear the black-trimmed white coat of a Servant of Cyclops, but even he showed gray at the temples.
Aage also was the uncle and sole surviving relative of the small boy Gordon had rescued in the ruins of Eugene. The man had not made any great display of gratitude, but it was clear he felt indebted to Gordon. None of those outranking him among the Servants had interfered when he insisted on being the one to show the visitor Cyclops’s program to hold off the dark age in Oregon.
“Here we’ve begun repairing some small computers and other simple machines,” Aage told Gordon, leading him past stacks of sorted and labeled electronics. “The hardest part is replacing circuits burned out in those first few instants of the war, by those high-frequency electromagnetic pulses the enemy set off above the continent-you know, by the very first bombs?”
Gordon smiled indulgently, and Aage reddened. He raised a hand in apology. “I’m sorry. I’m just so used to having to explain everything so simply… Of course you East-em folks probably know a lot more about the EMP than we do.”
“I am not a technical man,” Gordon answered, and wished he had not bluffed so well. He would have liked to have heard more.
But Aage went back to the subject at hand. “As I was saying, this is where most of the salvage work is done. It’s painstaking effort, but as soon as electricity can be provided on a wider scale, and once more basic needs have been addressed-we plan to put these microcomputers back in outlying villages, schools, and machine shops. It’s an ambitious goal, but Cyclops is certain we can make it happen in our lifetimes.”
The cavern of shelves opened up into a vast factory floor. Long banks of overhead skylights spanned the ceiling, so the fluorescents were used only sparingly. Still, there was a faint hum of electricity on all sides as white-coated techs carted equipment to and fro. Against every wall was stacked tribute from the surrounding towns and hamlets-payment for the benign guidance of Cyclops.
More machinery of all kinds-plus a small tithe of food and clothing for Cyclops’s human helpers-came in every day. And yet, from all Gordon had heard, this salvage was easily spared by the people of the valley. After all, what use had they for the old machines, anyway?
No wonder there were no complaints of a “tyranny by machine.” The supercomputer’s price was easily met. And in exchange, the valley had its Solomon-and perhaps a Moses to lead them out of this wilderness. Remembering that gentle, wise voice from so long ago, Gordon recognized a bargain.
“Cyclops has carefully planned this stage of the transition,” Aage explained. “You saw our small assembly line for water and wind turbines. Besides that, we help area blacksmiths improve their forges and local farmers plan their crops. And by distributing old hand-held video games to children in the valley, we hope to make them receptive to better things, such as computers, when the time comes.”
They passed a bench where gray-haired workers bent over flashing lights and screens bright with computer code. A bit lightheaded from all this, Gordon felt as if he had accidentally stumbled into a bright, wondrous workshop where shattered dreams were being carefully put back together by a band of earnest, friendly gnomes.
Most of the technicians were now well into or past middle age. To Gordon it seemed they were in a hurry to accomplish as much as possible before the educated generation passed away forever.
“Of course now that contact has been reestablished with the Restored U.S.,” Peter Aage continued, “we can hope to make faster progress. For instance, I could give you a long list of chips we haven’t any way to manufacture. They would make a world of difference. Only eight ounces’ worth could push Cyclops’s program ahead by four years, if Saint Paul City can provide what we need.”
Gordon didn’t want to meet the fellow’s eyes. He bent over a disassembled computer, pretending to pore over the complicated innards. “I know little about such matters,” he said, swallowing. “Anyway, back East there have been other priorities than distributing video games.”
He had said it that way in order not to lie any more than he had to. But the Servant of Cyclops paled as if he had been struck.
“Oh. I’m so stupid. Certainly they’ve had to deal with terrible radiation and plagues and famine and Holnists… I guess maybe we’ve been pretty lucky, here in Oregon. Of course we’ll just have to manage on our own until the rest of the country can help out.”
Gordon nodded. Both men were speaking literal truths, but only one knew just how sadly true the words were.
In the uncomfortable silence, Gordon reached for the very first question that came to mind. “So, you distribute toys with batteries, as sort of missionary tools?”
Aage laughed. “Yes, that’s how you first heard of us, isn’t it? It sounds primitive, I know. But it works. Come, I’ll introduce you to the head of that project. If anyone is a real throwback to the Twentieth Century, it’s Dena Spurgen. You’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”
He led Gordon through a side door and down a hallway cluttered with stacked odds and ends, coming at last to a room that seemed alive with a faint electric hum.
Everywhere there were racks of wires, looking much like strands of ivy climbing the walls alive. Socketed amidst the tangle were scores of little cubes and cylinders. Even after all these years, Gordon quickly recognized all manner of rechargeable batteries, drawing current from the Corvallis generators.
Across the long room, three civilians listened to a longhaired, blond person wearing the black-on-white coat of a Servant. Gordon blinked in surprise as he noticed that all four were young women.
Aage whispered in his ear. “I ought to warn you. Dena may be the youngest of all the Servants of Cyclops, but in one way she’s a museum piece. A genuine, bona fide, rip-snorting feminist.”
Aage grinned. So many things had gone with the Fall of civilization. There were words in common use, back in the old days, that one never even heard anymore. Gordon looked again in curiosity.
She was tall, especially for a woman who had grown up in these times. Since she was facing the other way, Gordon couldn’t tell much about her appearance, but her voice was low and certain as she spoke to the other intense young women.
“So on your next run I don’t want you taking chances like that again, Tracy. Do you hear me? It took a year of holding my breath and threatening to turn blue before I was able to get us this assignment. Never mind that it’s a logical solution-that outland villagers tend to feel less threatened when the emissary is a woman. All the logic in the world would come to nothing if one of you girls came to harm!”
“But Dena,” a tough-looking little brunette protested. “Tillamook’s already heard of Cyclops! It was just a quick hop over from my own village. Anyway, whenever I take Sam and Homer along they just slow me-“
“Never mind!” the taller woman interrupted. “You just take those boys with you next time. I mean it! Or I promise you I’ll have you back in Beaverville in two shakes, teaching school and making babies…”
She stopped abruptly as she noticed that her assistants weren’t paying attention anymore. They were staring at Gordon.
“Dena, come over and meet the Inspector,” Peter Aage said. “I’m sure he’d like to see your recharging facility and hear about your-missionary work.”
Aage spoke to Gordon, sotto voce with a wry smile. “Actually, it was introduce you or face a broken arm. Watch yourself, Gordon.” As the woman Servant approached, he said louder, “I have some matters to look into. I’ll be back in a few minutes to take you to your interview.”
Gordon nodded as the man left. He felt somehow exposed here, with these women staring at him this way.
“That’s it for now, girls. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon and well plan the next trip.” The others protested with entreating looks. But Dena’s head shake sent them out the door. Their shy smiles and giggles-as Gordon tipped his cap-contrasted with the long knives each wore at hip and boot.
Only when Dena Spurgen smiled, offering Gordon an outstretched hand, did he realize how young she had to be.
She can’t have been more than six when the bombs went off.
Her grip was as firm as her demeanor, and yet her smooth, barely calloused hand told of a life spent more among books than threshers and plows. Her green eyes met his in frank inspection. Gordon wondered when he had last met anyone like this.
Minneapolis, that crazy sophomore year, came his answer. Only then she had been a senior. Amazing 1 should remember that girl now, after so long.
Dena laughed. “Have I your permission to anticipate your question? Yes, I am young and female, and not really qualified to be a full Servant, let alone to be put in charge of an important project.”
“Forgive me,” he nodded, “but those were my thoughts.”
“Oh, no problem. Everybody calls me an anachronism, anyway. The truth is, I was adopted as a waif by Dr. Lazarensky and Dr. Taigher and the others, after the Anti-Tech Riots killed my parents. I have been spoiled terribly since, and learned how to take full advantage. As, no doubt, you guessed on overhearing what I had to say to my girls/’
Gordon finally decided her features could best be described as “handsome.” Perhaps a bit long and square-jawed. But when she was laughing at herself, as now, Dena Spurgen’s face lit up.
“Anyway,” she added, motioning at the wall of wires and little cylinders. “We may not be able to train any more engineers, but it doesn’t take much brains to learn how to cram electrons into a battery.”
Gordon laughed. “You’re unfair to yourself. I had to take introductory physics twice. Anyway, Cyclops must know what he’s doing, putting you in this job.”
This brought a reddening to Dena’s face as she blushed and looked down. “Yes, well, I suppose so.”
Modesty? Gordon wondered. This one is full of surprises. I wouldn’t have expected it.
“Oh rats. So soon. Here comes Peter,” she said in a much softer voice.
Peter Aage could be seen negotiating the clutter in the hallway. Gordon looked at his old-fashioned mechanical watch-one of the techs had adjusted it so that it no longer ran half a minute fast on the hour. “No wonder. My interview is in ten minutes,” he said as they shook hands again. “But I do hope we’ll have another chance to talk, Dena.”
Her grin was back. “Oh, you can bet we will. I want to ask you some questions about the way life was for you, back in the days before the war.”
Not about the Restored U.S., but about the old times. Unusual. And in that case, why me? What can I tell her about the Lost Age that she can’t learn by picking the memories of anyone else over thirty-five?
Puzzled, he met Peter Aage in the hallway and walked with him through the cavernous warehouse toward the exit.
“I’m sorry to rush you off like this,” Aage told him, “but we mustn’t be late. One thing we don’t want is for Cyclops to scold us!” He grinned, but Gordon got the feeling Aage was only partly jesting. Guards bearing rifles and white armbands nodded as they passed outside into overcast sunshine.
“I do hope your talk with Cyclops goes well, Gordon,” his guide said. “We’re all excited to be in contact with the rest of the country again, of course. I’m sure Cyclops will want to cooperate in any way he can.”
Cyclops. Gordon returned to reality. There’s no delaying this. And I don’t even know if I’m more eager than scared.
He steeled himself to play out the charade to the end. He had no other choice. “I feel exactly the same,” he said. “I want to help you folks any way I can.” And he meant it, with all his heart.
Peter Aage turned away to lead him across the neatly mowed lawn toward the House of Cyclops. But for a moment Gordon wondered. Had he imagined it, or had he seen, for just a moment, a strange expression in the tech’s eyes-one of sad and profound guilt?