The Happy Unfortunate Read online

came rushing up to him.

  "I'm going," Rolf said.

  "What? You don't mean that," the little man said. "Why, the party'sscarcely gotten under way, and there are dozens of people who want tomeet you. And you'll miss the big show if you don't stay."

  "I've already seen the big show," Rolf told him. "I want out. Now."

  "You can't leave now," Quinton said. Rolf thought he saw tears in thecorners of the little man's eyes. "Please don't leave. I've toldeveryone you'd be here--you'll disgrace me."

  "What do I care? Let me out of here." Rolf started to move toward thedoor. Quinton attempted to push him back.

  "Just a minute, Rolf. Please!"

  "I have to get out," he said. He knocked Quinton out of his way with abackhand swipe of his arm and dashed down the hall frantically, lookingfor the elevator.

  * * * * *

  Laney and Kanaday were sitting up waiting for him when he got back,early in the morning. He slung himself into a pneumochair and unsealedhis boots, releasing his cramped, tired feet.

  "Well," Laney asked. "How was the party?"

  "You have fun among the Earthers, Rolf?"

  He said nothing.

  "It couldn't have been that bad," Laney said.

  Rolf looked up at her. "I'm leaving space. I'm going to go to a surgeonand have him turn me into an Earther. I hate this filthy life!"

  "He's drunk," Kanaday said.

  "No, I'm not drunk," Rolf retorted. "I don't want to be an ape anymore."

  "Is that what you are? If you're an ape, what are they to you? Monkeys?"Kanaday laughed harshly.

  "Are they really so wonderful?" Laney asked. "Does the life appeal toyou so much that you'll give up space for it? Do you admire the Earthersso much?"

  * * * * *

  _She's got me_, Rolf thought. I hate Spacertown, but will I like Yawkany better? Do I really want to become one of those little puppets? Butthere's nothing left in space for me. At least the Earthers are happy.

  _I wish she wouldn't look at me that way._ "Leave me alone," he snarled."I'll do whatever I want to do." Laney was staring at him, trying topoke behind his mask of anger. He looked at her wide shoulders, hermuscular frame, her unbeautiful hair and rugged face, and compared itwith Jonne's clinging grace, her flowing gold hair.

  He picked up his boots and stumped up to bed.

  * * * * *

  The surgeon's name was Goldring, and he was a wiry, intense man who hadprevailed on one of his colleagues to give him a tiny slit of a mouth.He sat behind a shining plastiline desk, waiting patiently until Rolffinished talking.

  "It can't be done," he said at last. "Plastic surgeons can do almostanything, but I can't turn you into an Earther. It's not just a matterof chopping eight or ten inches out of your legs; I'd have to alter yourentire bone structure or you'd be a hideous misproportioned monstrosity.And it can't be done. I can't build you a whole new body from scratch,and if I could do it you wouldn't be able to afford it."

  Rolf stamped his foot impatiently. "You're the third surgeon who's givenme the same line. What is this--a conspiracy? I see what you can do. Ifyou can graft a third arm onto somebody, you can turn me into anEarther."

  "Please, Mr. Dekker. I've told you I can't. But I don't understand whyyou want such a change. Hardly a week goes by without some Yawk boycoming to me and asking to be turned into a Spacer, and I have to refusehim for the same reasons I'm refusing you! That's the usual course ofevents--the romantic Earther boy wanting to go to space, and not beingable to."

  An idea hit Rolf. "Was one of them Kal Quinton?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Dekker. I just can't divulge any such information."

  Rolf shot his arm across the desk and grasped the surgeon by the throat."Answer me!"

  "Yes," the surgeon gasped. "Quinton asked me for such an operation.Almost everyone wants one."

  "And you can't do it?" Rolf asked.

  "Of course not. I've told you: the amount of work needed to turn Eartherinto Spacer or Spacer into Earther is inconceivable. It'll never bedone."

  "I guess that's definite, then," Rolf said, slumping a little indisappointment. "But there's nothing to prevent you from giving me a newface--from taking away this face and replacing it with something peoplecan look at without shuddering."

  "I don't understand you, Mr. Dekker," the surgeon said.

  "I know that! Can't you see it--I'm _ugly_! Why? Why should I look thisway?"

  "Please calm down, Mr. Dekker. You don't seem to realize that you're aperfectly normal-looking Spacer. _You were bred to look this way._ It'syour genetic heritage. Space is not a thing for everyone; only men withextraordinary bone structure can withstand acceleration. The first menwere carefully selected and bred. You see the result of five centuriesof this sort of breeding. The sturdy, heavy-boned Spacers--you, Mr.Dekker, and your friends--are the only ones who are fit to travel inspace. The others, the weaklings like myself, the little people, resortto plastic surgery to compensate for their deficiency. For a while thetrend was to have everyone conform to a certain standard of beauty; ifwe couldn't be strong, we could at least be handsome. Lately a newtheory of individualism has sprung up, and now we strive for originalforms in our bodies. This is all because size and strength has been bredout of us and given to you."

  "I know all this," Rolf said. "Why can't you--"

  "Why can't I peel away your natural face and make you look like anEarther? There's no reason why; it would be a simple operation. But whowould you fool? Why can't you be grateful for what you are? You can goto Mars, while we can merely look at it. If I gave you a new face, itwould cut you off from both sides. The Earthers would still know youwere a Spacer, and I'm sure the other Spacers would immediately cease toassociate with you."

  * * * * *

  "Who are you to say? You're not supposed to pass judgment on whether anoperation should be performed, or you wouldn't pull out people's eyesand stick diamonds in!"

  "It's not that, Mr. Dekker." The surgeon folded and unfolded his handsin impatience. "You must realize that you are what you are. Yourappearance is a social norm, and for acceptance in your socialenvironment you must continue to appear, well, perhaps, shall I sayapelike?"

  It was as bad a word as the surgeon could have chosen.

  "Ape! Ape, am I! I'll show you who's an ape!" Rolf yelled, all theaccumulated frustration of the last two days suddenly bursting loose. Heleaped up and overturned the desk. Dr. Goldring hastily jumped backwardsas the heavy desk crashed to the floor. A startled nurse dashed into theoffice, saw the situation, and immediately ran out.

  "Give me your instruments! I'll operate on myself!" He knocked Goldringagainst the wall, pulled down a costly solidograph from the wall andkicked it at him, and crashed through into the operating room, where hebegan overturning tables and heaving chairs through glass shelves.

  "I'll show you," he said. He cracked an instrument case and took out adelicate knife with a near-microscopic edge. He bent it in half andthrew the crumpled wreckage away. Wildly he destroyed everything hecould, raging from one end of the room to the other, ripping downfurnishings, smashing, destroying, while Dr. Goldring stood at the doorand yelled for help.

  It was not long in coming. An army of Earther policemen erupted intothe room and confronted him as he stood panting amid the wreckage. Theywere all short men, but there must have been twenty of them.

  "Don't shoot him," someone called. And then they advanced in a body.

  He picked up the operating table and hurled it at them. Three policemencrumpled under it, but the rest kept coming. He batted them away likeinsects, but they surrounded him and piled on. For a few moments hestruggled under the load of fifteen small men, punching and kicking andyelling. He burst loose for an instant, but two of them were clinging tohis legs and he hit the floor with a crash. They were on himimmediately, and he stopped struggling after a while.

  * *
* * *

  The next thing he knew he was lying sprawled on the floor of his room inSpacertown, breathing dust out of the tattered carpet. He was a mass ofcuts and bruises, and he knew they must have given him quite agoing-over. He was sore from head to foot.

  So they hadn't arrested him. No, of course not; no more than they wouldarrest any wild animal who went berserk. They had just dumped him backin the jungle. He tried