Read Ebook: The York Problem by Kastle Herbert D Orban Paul Illustrator

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Ebook has 68 lines and 6017 words, and 2 pages

E PEOPLE. The Sinais didn't like it. It was equivalent to calling them Outsiders. But their corner came along and they had to hop it. John turned back to the window. He'd get his sticker into that muscular one; see if he didn't!

"Your sister sleeps with Outsiders," a soft voice murmured.

John jerked around, and saw the three kids shuffling past his seat. They grinned at him and the soft-spoken one said, "You don't like it, Adolph? Step off at Benito Street and we'll have it out."

John controlled his rage. "Some other time," he said, voice calm. "I'm capering Upper City today. Maybe you boys would like to declare a truce and come along?"

They all stared at him. Then the one who did all the talking said, "Hell, he's a foul-blood liar!"

"Sure," John said as they slumped into seats. "Follow me to the Split and see."

"Okay," another Son of Musso said. "We will." And the three of them grinned at him.

John grinned back, but he felt far from Aryan inside. Now he wouldn't be able to jet out. Now he'd really have to cross the Split.

He began to sweat, hoping the snake would break down along the route, that a Blast would stop him from crossing, that the Earth would blow up! Anything to keep from having to cross the Split. He knew now that he'd never meant to do it--just take a ride, kill some time, and bluff Pete when he got back.

Ten minutes later, the Last Corner sign lit up at car end. The three Sons of Musso strolled out into the street and waited, standing quietly under the eyes of the Blasts who were always around the dry river bed which separated York from Upper City.

This was the Split, and John had to leave the car. He came out, walked past the three kids toward the span, and stopped at the gate. "One to Upper City," he said, throat dry.

The Blast gave him a sharp look. "Why do you want to go there, boy?"

"Free Galaxy, ain't it?" John muttered.

The Blast shrugged, handed him a transfer disk, lifted the gate. John had a momentary surge of satisfaction as he heard the Sons of Musso talking excitedly behind him. It wasn't every day that a kid from York invaded Upper City. Then he was at the shiny new snake and his stomach tightened and he was sweating.

He kept walking, got on the fifth car, took a seat in the last row. He was the only passenger, but he'd seen others waiting in the cars he'd passed. Older folks. People who worked in Upper City, doing various menial tasks for the Outsiders.

When the Blast walked through on his way to the back-box, John ran to the port and looked out across the one-piece duralume span. The Sons of Musso were still there. Before he could make a decision, the snake eased forward fluidly and then hit high speed.

John Stevens was frightened, but he composed his features and returned to his seat. He sat straight and tried to remember what the master had said about maintaining dignity in front of Outsiders, showing them the stuff pure-bloods were made of. But the words fled his mind as he gazed out of the window.

John drank in the huge, upright needles that stood gleaming in the July sun, waiting to blast off for planets where even greater cities and spaceports were established. If only he, John Stevens of York, could get inside one of those ships and go--

Deep bitterness hit him, and all the irritation he'd felt for the past weeks was back. They don't let us do anything! he thought. They keep us poor; in dirt and ignorance! That's what the master had said. And he'd added that the Outsiders were afraid of Aryans. That's why they persecuted them.

John was seeing the full majesty of Upper City now, the spacious walks and busy drives and sun-filled buildings. And he couldn't help wondering why his people refused Integration.

He suddenly realized that the car had filled with passengers, with Outsiders. He also realized that the twin seat next to his was just about the only one left in the jammed car. He felt his face stiffen, felt the hatred rise in his blood; and then the girl flounced up the aisle and hesitated, looking at him. She sat down.

Not more than sixteen, John thought. Just right for him. And she sure was cute. Lovely golden skin--

He stopped the thoughts there.

It wasn't right to think that way. The master at Race-Through-God wouldn't approve. Not that John attended church regularly, as he'd told the Blast back in York. But still, such thoughts weren't right. They smacked of Integration.

But even as he stepped into the street, he was remembering how that girl had looked, with her big brown eyes and dark hair and golden skin.

He muttered, "Damned, non-Aryan, foul-blood Outsiders!" Then walked quickly down the street when he realized he'd used terms of racial-superiority. Getting picked up here for profanity wouldn't be fun. He'd get six months in Re-education House for sure.

It was a hot, bright day and Upper City was clean, fragrant and beautiful, but John Stevens wasn't enjoying himself. He was filled with nagging irritation, growing angrier by the second without knowing exactly why. He began to search the eyes of people passing by--well-dressed Outsiders in their one-piece coroplast suits, colors ranging through all the hues of the rainbow. He felt shabby in his old brown plasts. Those eyes seemed to be sneering at him. They seemed to be looking at him with disgust and contempt.

He was about to turn around and go back to the snake stop, about to obey the warning bell that had begun ringing in his brain, when it happened. It wasn't much, and yet it was the last straw--the one that broke the normal behavior patterns and left him at the mercy of his own emotions.

A young woman, sleek and well-groomed, was passing with a little boy of about five. The child stopped dead on seeing John. In spite of himself, John stopped too. The child stared at John, eyes wide and filled with wonder.

The woman tried to hush her son, to drag him away, but the child eluded her grasp and danced back, still staring at John. "Look at him, Mommy! What a funny color--"

John raised his hand as if to strike the child. He didn't mean it, not really, but he wanted to stop that high-pitched voice, stop those amazed eyes from examining him. The child screamed and ran to his mother. The mother shrank back, enfolding the little boy in her arms, and shouted, "Help! Help me, please!"

John turned and ran, almost into the arms of a tall Blast. He stopped, whirled around, and headed back past the woman and child. He cut left at the next corner, ran faster than ever before in his life, cut right, and left, and kept going until the breath rasped through his throat like liquified metal. But even as he ran, he was without fear. He was too angry now to be frightened. And it was anger such as he'd never before experienced. A sickening, confusing, red-hazed m?lange of emotion that had about it a nightmare quality.

He had to slow down, and saw that it was all right. He'd lost that Blast, left the entire scene far behind. "Lousy foul-blooded Outsiders!" he panted, and at the same time knew that it wasn't just the Outsiders. It was his mother, and his father, and the slum, and the gangs, and the poverty. It was his life he hated, his life he raged at.

This then was the irritation he'd felt in the past weeks, now transformed by Upper City into a maniacal rage.

John Stevens was leader of the Adolphs. John Stevens wasn't even close to being the biggest or strongest boy in his crowd. But he was the smartest. And this raw, basic, but still superior intellect worked against him as he stalked the wide avenues of Upper City.

A caper, he thought. He'd pull a big caper, return with loot, justify this visit, take out his anger on these people--these scum who had made his life so poor.

Or was it his mother and father who had made his life poor? Was it the masters who had done that? Why had he come here when it brought such confusion, such pain?

Another quick change of thought. He blocked everything from his mind but the red haze of rage; fed it, allowed it to grow to the point where it swallowed everything but his desire to strike back.

He didn't know where he was, where he was going, and he no longer saw the Outsiders. He had regained his wind now, and began walking quickly, almost running.

It was later, much later, when he finally found the right street, and the right vendro, and the focal point for his hatred. Clothing. New, bright, expensive coroplast suits. Eight hundred disks and up! More than his father made in three months. More than John Stevens had ever seen in a lump sum.

The street was quiet, empty of pedestrians. He walked past the vendro, casing it with eyes that saw nothing but inner hate. Something sane--something still resisting the never-before-experienced rage--cried out that he wasn't being smart, that he wasn't checking for Blasts, that he couldn't think straight enough for a caper, especially one in Upper City. But he was back at the vendro now, and he was going inside.

There was only the commersh, and an old man magnetting dust from the floor. The commersh was an Outsider, naturally. But the old man was one of York's folk, and this made John Stevens lose whatever grain of caution he might have retained. His folk, slaving for these scum!

The commersh was moving toward him, face bland, only his dark eyes showing something other than serenity at seeing a kid from York. "Are you sure you have the right--" he began, and then gasped as John pulled his knife and snapped the eight-inch blade free of the haft.

John pressed the blade against the Outsider's stomach and said, "Five suits, the best, and I'm with you every foul-blood inch of the way!"

"Don't, son!" the old man said from the side. "Get out before--"

John half-turned his head, and then felt the numbness strike his body. He stood there, completely rigid for a moment, and then found he could breathe and move his lips and shift his eyes. The commersh stepped back, pressed a red button on the counter.

"You Yorkers must be insane," he said mildly. "Do you think we haven't got adequate protection against criminals of our own group, not to say such pitiful amateurs as you? I can paralyze a whole vendro full of people with this little ornament on my wrist." He showed John the metallic strap and small case. "It's six months Re-education House for you."

The old man shuffled closer, peered at John, said, "The Blasts will be here soon. You can talk. Tell me your name and I'll get word to your folks and your master. Maybe they can help."

The rage was so strong now that John barely heard the old man. He was screaming inside, bellowing insane things that couldn't get through his rigid throat. But the words, "You can talk," penetrated, and he calmed himself.

He tried hard, and squeaking sounds came through his lips. He shaped the words, and then had nothing to say. There wasn't anything bad enough, anything that could hurt this Outsider, anything that could penetrate his shield of superiority.

And then he remembered the ancient word, the forbidden word, the cardinal sin that meant death if used. He'd heard it one night when his father had gotten hold of enough medicinal prychol for a long drunk, and had ranted and raved against the Outsiders.

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