And that was when Peter and Lola made their pitiful little trip down to the landing.
Chapter 19.
"We'll be coming soon, very soon ...," Blossom called after the two thin, stumbling figures, and then, with growing excitement, turned back to Abigail and Oliver. "How could we have forgotten about them?" she asked in amazement. "How could could we?" we?"
"I guess we were just too involved in what we were doing to think about anything else," Oliver said thoughtfully. "Gee, weren't they skinny, though? Peter looked almost like a different person. He kind of acted different too."
"But don't you realize what this means?" Blossom went on, her eyes shining voraciously. "It's been getting kind of hard to think of things to do; but now, when I start thinking about what we could do to them, a million ideas come to my mind all at once. It's fantastic!"
"But," said Abigail, with what was perhaps the last vestige of compassion left in her, "but maybe it isn't fair." She thought of their gaunt faces and of how unsteadily they had stood, swaying slightly, on the steps. "They seemed so weak, and they ... they don't understand, they don't know how to protect themselves, they're not in in it the way we-" it the way we-"
Oliver stood up and slapped her hard across the face, leaving the red imprint of five fingers on her cheek. "Oh, you make me sick sick!" he said. "You and your goody-goody namby-pamby phony slush! What the hell else are we going to do? Now that we've thought of it, do you think there's any way we cannot start working on them? I'll bet you anything you won't be able to resist." start working on them? I'll bet you anything you won't be able to resist."
And it was true. Once they began making plans, Abigail was just as much a part of it as the others. Giggling together as they tried to think of the crudest ways to go about it was so deeply satisfying in some basic, almost physical, way, that Abigail was drawn into it whether she liked it or not. And, as it happened, she did like it. That final trace of human feeling had escaped from her like the last puff of gas from a sinking balloon.
They began simply, saving for last what they knew would be the most effective trick of all. As soon as their plans were made, they hurried up the stairs to hide on a landing just above Lola and Peter's.
The two of them sat silently across from one another, absolutely motionless. They might have been two pieces of sculpture. Their noses and cheekbones had grown sharp and prominent as the flesh had melted away; their faces were triangular and skull-like, with deep, hollow sockets for the eyes.
Strangely enough, though he was just sitting there, it was obvious that Peter wasn't in a trance-his eyes were alert and he was holding himself erect. They wondered at this change in him, especially Oliver, who somehow didn't like it. And then Peter's thin mouth moved, and he reached out slowly to touch Lola on the shoulder with a long, skeletal hand. "What are you thinking about?" he asked her, in the choked whisper of an aged person.
She did not answer for quite a long time, while the three hiding above exchanged excited glances, their hands pressed against their mouths to stifle the giggles that were threatening to give them away.
Slowly Lola's mouth opened, just a crack. "It didn't take Blossom very long to get fat again," she whispered hoarsely. "I think she might be even fatter than before."
"Mmmm," said Peter, nodding so slightly that it was barely noticeable. And they lapsed into silence again.
Even in her weakened state, Lola still had the power to infuriate Blossom. And it was Blossom who made the first move, taking off her one remaining shoe, a hard little white plastic number that had long since lost its shine, and flinging it down at Lola's head.
It is bad enough when something falls near you unexpectedly from above; it is even more shocking and unpleasant when it hits you on the head, digging sharply and painfully into your scalp. Nevertheless, to Blossom's disappointment, Lola's reaction was surprisingly mild. For a long moment she didn't even seem to feel it (although Peter started slightly). Then she put her hand to the spot where it had hit her, and with a little cry bent her head down (they could see every bone in her neck). One hand still on her head, she picked up the shoe, examined it, tossed it over the edge, and said, "They've started. Be ready for anything, Pete."
Unfortunately, Blossom's shoe had been the only thing they had left to throw, for they had used every other loose object on each other. And, though Oliver had planned to urinate down on them, he was too embarrassed to do so in front of the two girls. So, quite dissatisfied, they went on to the second part of their plan.
Though the three of them were covered with superficial scratches and bruises, they had avoided any really serious physical violence; to cripple or maim, though it would have been extremely satisfying, would have rendered the victim incapable of dancing, and the dance was still necessary. But Peter and Lola were not. This part of the plan had filled them with special glee, for they felt keenly the restriction of protecting one another's bodies; and, though Blossom was beginning to be nervous about being so far away from the machine, they made their way down to the landing with more excitement than they had felt in days.
Oliver arrived first, Blossom and Abigail close behind. Peter and Lola were bent over, and pressed their faces into their knees. "Hey, Pete," Oliver said. "Don't you even want to say hello? How're you doing, friend?"
Instinctively Peter looked up to greet him. "Watch it!" Lola hissed, and just in time Peter bent over again, so that Oliver's kick merely glanced off the top of his head instead of hitting him full in the face. In fact, since Oliver was barefoot, it hurt him more than it did Peter, which only served to enrage him.
"Stay out of my way, you bitch!" he shouted at Lola, and socked her in the ribs. It made a hollow thump, and knocked Lola to the side a bit, but she did not respond in any other way.
Blossom grabbed hold of Lola's hair and tried to pull her head back, while Oliver, grunting, continued to pummel her on the back and sides. Abigail was left to deal with Peter by herself. She was not accustomed to hitting people, but she knew that it was necessary, and so she began, timidly at first but with increasing force, to pound his head and shoulders with her fists.
But it was so frustrating the way they insisted on staying bent over like that, keeping hidden all the soft and vulnerable spots like their stomachs and their faces. If only they could get at those places, then they would really be able to hurt them. Blossom pulled harder at Lola's hair, puffing, her tongue pressed between her lips, hard enough so that some of it came out in her hand; Abigail began prying Peter's head away from his knees, scratching violently at his forehead with her long nails. Oliver darted from one to the other, shaking and pinching them, trying to roll them over on their backs. And Peter and Lola crouched and gritted their teeth; but they were weak, and began to give way.
But suddenly the colored light was flashing at them, and the whispers were in the air. Almost before the signals had started, it seemed, Blossom, Abigail, and Oliver were speeding down the stairs, too quickly gone to be able to witness Peter and Lola's real agony-though it was an agony that was rapidly losing its sting.
The machine fed them well this time, almost as if it was rewarding them, or else helping them to prepare for the third, and what they knew would be the most effective, part of their plan. For the agreement that they should stop the purely physical attacks and go on to something else was unanimous and unspoken; not only was it no fun to beat Peter and Lola when they didn't seem to mind it much, but it was hard work, and actually painful to them, their only weapons being their own hands and feet. The third part did not have this drawback, and furthermore was absolutely foolproof: There was no way that Peter and Lola would be able to protect themselves.
The difficulty, of course, was saving some of the food, and Blossom found it particularly trying. But since they had been well fed this time there was more food than usual, and the plan was so enticing that when she concentrated on it even Blossom was able to keep a good number of pellets in her hand instead of stuffing them into her mouth. But they started quickly, not trusting their willpower to last very long, and also hoping-for it could just as easily be in two minutes or five hours-to get finished before the machine should start again.
"Oh, why did they have to go so far away?" Blossom whined as they mounted the steps for the second time that day. "If they were closer we wouldn't have to worry about missing the machine."
"Yes," Oliver agreed, "we'll have to bring them down sometime. But after we've been up there a few more times, they'll learn they can't get away from us no matter where they are, and it'll be easier to get them to come down. They may even do it on their own."
"Do you think they'll starve to death?" Abigail asked with a nervous giggle. She was always nervous now, and, oddly enough, unlike the other two, she was still as thin as ever.
"But if they died we wouldn't be able to do things to them anymore," said Blossom. "And they might start to stink."
"Don't be ridiculous," Oliver said in the bossy, pompous voice he was beginning to use more and more. "They'll never go that far. They'll come crawling back to us first, and we can spit at them and watch them grovel."
"But they're getting pret-ty skinny," said Abigail, trying to sound irritatingly whimsical. She knew Oliver hated being contradicted. "Pret-ty skinny."
Oliver stopped in midflight, turned and grabbed the back of her neck, pressing his fingers hard into the soft spots. "Shut up!" he said between his teeth, shaking her. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" But Abigail kept her mouth in a mocking half-smile, until his hand grew tired and he was forced to let go. "Who gives a shit what you think, anyway?" he said, and started up again. "Come on, we're in a hurry."
Peter and Lola must have heard them approach, for they were back in their crouching positions when they reached the landing. "You don't have to do that, you know. We're not going to hit you," Oliver said.
"And we're not going to throw anything at you, either," Blossom added.
Peter and Lola did not speak or change their positions.
The others had expected this, and knew what to do. Blossom began at once, kneeling beside Lola and bringing forth one pellet from the pile in her left hand. She held it as close as she could to Lola's buried nose. "Smell something?" she asked her. "Smell something familiar, Lola? Something good?" She rolled the pellet along Lola's fingers. "Feel something? Has kind of a nice feel, doesn't it? If you licked your finger now you might even get a little taste taste of-" of-"
Lola's movement was sudden, but Blossom was prepared, and the machine had taught her to be quick. In an instant she was on her feet, out of Lola's reach, barely feeling Lola's hand brush against her skirt in its wild grab. For a moment Lola's arm remained outstretched, trembling slightly. Staring into Lola's haggard face with its sunken eyes, Blossom brought the pellet to her own mouth, slipped it in, and very, very slowly and thoroughly she chewed and swallowed it. "Mmmm," she sighed, still watching Lola's eyes. "That was delicious."
Now Peter was looking up at them too. "Want one, Pete?" said Oliver, stepping toward him and reaching out his hand. Holding the pellet between his forefinger and his thumb he waved it slowly back and forth just in front of Peter's eyes. And helplessly, Peter grabbed too.
"Uh, uh, uh, Petey boy," Oliver said as he jumped back, clucking his tongue against his teeth and shaking his head. "Naughty boy, naugh-ty, naugh-ty." He began to chew the pellet, slowly, as Blossom had, and then opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, with its glob of reddish-brown goo and strands of glistening saliva.
Blossom was still playing with Lola. Desolately, Lola had watched her eat, and then retreated back into her crouch, too weak, it seemed, to be able both to protect herself and be aware of what was happening to Peter too. And Blossom approached her again, and brought a tantalizing pellet once more to her nose, and giggled as Lola, her reflexes slowed, uncontrollably and futilely reached for it another time. More even than denying her the food, it was the beautiful humiliation, the sight of Lola as her absolutely helpless, pitiful victim, that was so deliciously satisfying; of everything in the world, Blossom could think of nothing that Lola would hate more.
They left soon after the pellets were gone, pulled by their ever-present awareness of the waiting machine. Oliver's parting gesture was to sail his last pellet past them both. Laughing as they turned away from the sight of Peter and Lola reaching so slowly and feebly and inevitably for the disappearing bit of food, they made their way down the stairs, taking every opportunity to pinch and insult one another as they went.
Chapter 20.
And at last the moment came when Lola opened her eyes from sleep and knew unquestionably that if she did not eat soon she would die.
It was quite different from just being hungry. Oddly enough the hunger, after the first hellish days, had for the most part disappeared. Water alone seemed to satisfy them. It was only when Oliver, Abigail, and Blossom came up to play their little games that food was once again unbearably tempting; but since they had not allowed Peter or Lola to get any, the feel and taste of it were almost forgotten sensations to them now.
And not only had the hunger seemed to go away, but the call of the machine had begun to wane as well. Once they had managed to resist it for a certain number of times, the inevitability of its control was broken; and, since they had determined that food did not exist for them now anyway, its one reward grew gradually less enticing. And finally, after the others started their painful visits, the significance of the light and the voices changed altogether: For now, while they lasted, Peter and Lola knew they were safe from the others, and at last came to welcome the signals as much as they had dreaded them before.
No, the feeling Lola had at this moment was not hunger; if possible, it was something even deeper and more instinctive. It was the sensation of dying, coupled with the basic, undeniable urge to live. It was as though she were conscious of every cell in her body giving up, changing one by one from living into dead useless tissue and being carried away, until at last there would be nothing left. The drive to fight this process was not, like hunger, something she had learned to tolerate in an effort to resist the greater evil of the machine; it was a force she had never been fully conscious of before, and in its sudden emergence her will was powerless before it.
"Peter," she whispered. They rarely spoke now, and when they did it was in the barest of whispers, for what little strength they had left had to be saved for their encounters with the others. "Peter," she said again.
Still reclining, he lifted his head slowly and looked at her.
She did not have the time or the energy to waste words. "I'm dying," she said. "I can feel it. All over."
He nodded. "Yes. I feel it too."
"I can't help it. I must eat. I can't die. I'm going down, if I can make it."
Her words were such a shock to him, so overwhelmingly disappointing, that they were more painful than anything the others had done. He even managed to sit up. "No," he said. "Lola, don't give up now. Think of the machine, what it did to them. What it will do to you."
But she was already dragging herself to her feet, using the nearest stairway for support. "You don't understand," she gasped, pushing herself away and standing unsteadily. "There's nothing I can do. This thing inside me won't let me die. It won't let me."
If he'd had the strength, Peter would have cried out in despair. He would have pulled her down and forced her to stay. But as it was, all he could do was stare at her and gulp two or three times. He knew the feeling she had; his body was perhaps weakening even faster than hers. But his instinct to live was not so strong. For three years his life had been so listless and so empty that there was really nothing to make him hold onto it now. Fighting the machine, in fact, was the only thing that had interested him since the time of Jasper. He did not want to give up the fight just to hold onto the dull emptiness he knew as life.
But as Lola stared back at him, he knew that he would have to go with her. Even though something in her had just broken, he understood that she still hated the machine at least as much as he did, and would always continue to. If he did not give in, and let himself die, she would know for the rest of her life that success had been possible, and that she had let herself fail. Whatever was going to happen to her in the future, it would be far worse for her if she had to bear the failure alone. And he realized that even more important than the fight against the machine was his caring for her. He could not desert her.
He struggled to his feet, trying to ignore the agonizing disappointment. "I ... I ... you're right," he said, reverting back to his stutter in the sudden confusion of thinking up his lie. It was a lie he would have to live with from now on, and it had to be said the right way. "I feel it too. Something inside ... it won't let me die. It ... it doesn't care about the machine."
"Yes," said Lola, watching him; and then she turned and started down.
Fortunately, it was well before they reached the others that they heard the whirring above them, and looked up to see the elevator coming down to take them away.
epilogue.
Of course it took Lola and Peter a long time to recuperate, being fed gently through rubber tubes inserted into their arms; but nevertheless Dr. Lawrence waited until they were quite strong, keeping all five of them in separate hospital rooms and allowing no one to answer any questions.
When at last he felt they were ready, each of them was led through the hushed white corridors, uncomfortably aware of curious eyes turning to watch them pass. What they were not aware of was that one whole wall of the laboratory to which they were taken was a one-way viewing wall, and that behind it dozens of doctors and scientists-and several others-fell silent and leaned forward eagerly as the five of them were led into the room.
They were shocked, at first, by one another's appearances. They remembered gaunt features, broken black fingernails, matted hair, tattered, crusted clothes, and pungent body odors. The shining, combed, and starched people they saw were almost like strangers. Especially to Lola and Peter, for they were not accustomed to the behavior of the other three: their tense, slightly crouching posture; the way their eyes slid constantly from side to side; their quick, furtive gestures-when Abigail brushed back her hair it was not a luxuriant movement as it once had been, but quick and businesslike, as though to keep the hand poised for something more important.
And Peter was different too, though not like the others. The way he stood so straight, and calmly looked people in the eye, and smiled so openly when he saw her, made Lola feel a sudden glow of pride and affection. The two of them hurried together, and briefly clasped hands.
Oliver's first response on seeing Abigail was to slap her across the face; she grabbed his hand and bit it. Then, suddenly remembering the doctor's presence, they stepped apart rather sheepishly. But Dr. Lawrence didn't seem surprised; his only reaction was a slight movement of his lip, and a brief shift of his eyes toward the viewing wall.
"Well?" said Lola, her hands on her hips and her head turning to look around the room. One side of the white laboratory was a vast instrument panel, consisting mostly of video screens, but with a few rows of buttons and little gauges. Lola began to study the screens; and then, almost simultaneously, they all noticed what was on them, and felt such a curious and intense mixture of horror and nostalgia that Abigail even cried out. There was nothing on the screens but stairs.
"Oh, yes," said the doctor, noticing their reaction and moving toward the panel. "Perhaps you are surprised that there are so many video screens, but we really had no idea where you might go if you ever did leave the reinforcement center, and of course had to be prepared to view and record everything. Watch." He pressed a button; there was a flash on one of the central screens, and then there were Lola and Peter crouching, while three demented and disheveled creatures attacked them ferociously, sweating and grunting with exertion.
"Stop!" Abigail cried out, hiding her eyes. "Stop it, stop it, please!"
"Of course, of course," the doctor said quickly, and suddenly the people were gone, and the screen showed only its empty section of stair.
"But why?" Peter said. "Why did you do it? What were you trying to prove? My God, it's so...." He turned to Lola, shaking his head in disbelief.
"I don't know why you're so surprised," Lola said. She gestured at the screens. "None of that is any filthier than all the crap he's already put us through. Let him keep on having his fun with us now, showing off his sick little games. You and I can take it, anyway."
"Yes," the doctor said, staring at Lola. Those behind the viewing wall who knew him were accustomed to the doctor's habitual lack of facial expression, and his cool, well-modulated voice that never rose. But now they were startled by his expression and the tone of his voice. "Because you could both take it, a great scientific project has been something of a failure."
Peter and Lola were watching each other. Lola knew that their secret, the secret that they had been about to give in when the elevator had come, was safe. And Peter knew that his own secret was safer still.
The doctor looked at the blank wall. "In the end, since we couldn't just let you starve, and since we knew we had been quite successful with the others, we decided to move in and take all of you out, and just hope for more consistent results next time. That is," now talking directly to the viewing wall, the doctor removed his glasses and began fondling them nervously. "That is, if we are given another chance." He paused, returned his glasses to his nose, and went on more quickly. "It must be realized that such severe and undetected abnormalities in certain of the subjects chosen is not something that we or our techniques can be held responsible-" Suddenly, he stopped.
It seemed quite strange to the five in the laboratory with him that the doctor kept looking at the wall. They did not realize that the explanation was not for them at all, but directed at those in the observation room; and that they were merely being used as exhibits.
"I should explain that conditioning," the doctor said, "is the means by which any organism learns how to interact with the world in the most effective way, most basically avoiding pain and approaching pleasure. What conditioning essentially consists of is finding out that a certain action on your part will produce a certain response from something else. You learn that if you respond to a specific outside stimulus in a certain way, then you will bring about a specific result. You learn to tell the difference-to discriminate-between stimuli, if there is a reason to do so if there is a reason to do so. You learn, automatically, to do the right thing at the right time in order to get the right result: You are reinforced reinforced to behave the way you do by the results you achieve. People have been studying these patterns of conditioned behavior for years, and we may soon know that everything one does in life can be explained in this way." to behave the way you do by the results you achieve. People have been studying these patterns of conditioned behavior for years, and we may soon know that everything one does in life can be explained in this way."
Once again he paused. "Now," he went on, "I would like to explain how each element in our project relates to conditioning behavior. To begin with, the stairs."
"Wait a minute," Lola said. "I want to get this straight. You were trying to condition us, right? You were trying to create certain patterns in us?"
"Of course," said the doctor, turning to her impatiently.
"But why were you trying to condition us to do those ... those things, those horrible-"
Dr. Lawrence put up his hand. "Please let me finish. No one will be able to understand until I have explained each element. Now, the stairs. They served a very important function. In order to achieve the fastest and strongest results, I felt that the reinforcing element-the food-had to be as powerful as possible." He looked at the wall again. "It was essential for the food to be the only only thing that wasn't unpleasant. If everything else is terrifying, alien, and uncomfortable, how much more intensely gratifying, and necessary, the one pleasurable element will be." thing that wasn't unpleasant. If everything else is terrifying, alien, and uncomfortable, how much more intensely gratifying, and necessary, the one pleasurable element will be."
"But you're wrong," Lola said.
"What?" The doctor turned toward her.
"You were wrong. The reward is more important."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Lola sighed. "It's what you were just saying, about how making everything unpleasant and horrible helped to condition us. You didn't need to. It's the reward, or the reinforcing element, whatever you call it, that really counts. Punishment doesn't work very well. In fact ... in fact, you might have had better luck if you hadn't used so much punishment, and more of a reward."
For a moment the doctor just stared at her. "How do you know anything whatsoever about it?" he said at last.
Lola shrugged, trying not to look at Peter, who was staring at her as with some sudden revelation. "I ... I just know," Lola said, and looked down.
The doctor snorted. "Do not interrupt," he said coldly.
"Now, the light and the voices," he went on. "They, of course, were the discriminative stimuli. The subjects learned quickly that then and only then would food be given, depending on how they behaved. As to what the voices actually said...." He moved to the instrument panel and pushed another button, watching them. The voices that suddenly filled the room were closer now, and they realized that they were nothing but blurred nonsense syllables, not real words at all. He stopped them quickly. "That was just a little side issue, actually, to see how each of you would interpret them, and how it would relate to your later behavior. And as for the light...." This time the button brought to life a glowing panel. "Would you mind telling me what color that is?"
Oddly enough, they all hesitated before answering. At last Oliver said, "I think ... green?"