The Complete Stories_ Volume 1 - Isaac Asimov [105]
Omani gazed fixedly at George and said distinctly, “A House for the Feeble-minded.”
George Platen flushed. Feeble-minded!
He rejected it desperately. He said in a monotone, “I’m leaving.”
He said it on impulse. His conscious mind learned it first from the statement as he uttered it. Omani, who had returned to his book, looked up. “What?”
George knew what he was saying now. He said it fiercely, “I’m leaving.”
“That’s ridiculous. Sit down, George, calm yourself.”
“Oh, no. I’m here on a frame-up, I tell you. This doctor, Antonelli, took a dislike to me. It’s the sense of power these petty bureaucrats have. Cross them and they wipe out your life with a stylus mark on some card file.”
“Are you back to that?”
“And staying there till it’s all straightened out. I’m going to get to Antonelli somehow, break him, force the truth out of him.” George was breathing heavily and he felt feverish. Olympics month was here and he couldn’t let it pass. If he did, it would be the final surrender and he would be lost for all time. Omani threw his legs over the side of his bed and stood up. He was nearly six feet tall and the expression on his face gave him the look of a concerned Saint Bernard. He put his arm about George’s shoulder, “If I hurt your feelings—”
George shrugged him off. “You just said what you thought was the truth, and I’m going to prove it isn’t the truth, that’s all. Why not? The door’s open. There aren’t any locks. No one ever said I couldn’t leave. I’ll just walk out.”
“All right, but where will you go?”
“To the nearest air terminal, then to the nearest Olympics center. I’ve got money.” He seized the open jar that held the wages he had put away. Some of the coins jangled to the floor.
“That will last you a week maybe. Then what?”
“By then I’ll have things settled.”
“By then you’ll come crawling back here,” said Omani earnestly, “with all the progress you’ve made to do over again. You’re mad, George.”
“Feeble-minded is the word you used before.”
“Well, I’m sorry I did. Stay here, will you?”
“Are you going to try to stop me?”
Omani compressed his full lips. “No, I guess I won’t. This is your business. If the only way you can learn is to buck the world and come back with blood on your face, go ahead.—Well, go ahead.”
George was in the doorway now, looking back over his shoulder. “I’m going,” —he came back to pick up his pocket grooming set slowly— “I hope you don’t object to my taking a few personal belongings.”
Omani shrugged. He was in bed again reading, indifferent.
George lingered at the door again, but Omani didn’t look up. George gritted his teeth, turned and walked rapidly down the empty corridor and out into the night-shrouded grounds.
He had expected to be stopped before leaving the grounds. He wasn’t. He had stopped at an all-night diner to ask directions to an air terminal and expected the proprietor to call the police. That didn’t happen. He summoned a skimmer to take him to the airport and the driver asked no questions. Yet he felt no lift at that. He arrived at the airport sick at heart. He had not realized how the outer world would be. He was surrounded by professionals. The diner’s proprietor had had his name inscribed on the plastic shell over the cash register. So and so, Registered Cook. The man in the skimmer had his license up, Registered Chauffeur. George felt the bareness of his name and experienced a kind of nakedness because of it; worse, he felt skinned. But no one challenged him. No one studied him suspiciously and demanded proof of professional rating.
George thought bitterly: Who would imagine any human being without one?
He bought a ticket to San Francisco on the 3 A.M. plane. No other plane for a sizable Olympics center was leaving before morning and he wanted to wait as little as possible. As it was, he sat huddled in the waiting room, watching for the police. They did not come.
He was in San Francisco before noon and the noise of the city struck