A Song Called Youth by John Shirley Read Free Book Online Page B

fone. She explained the situation to Judy Avickian in Central Telecast. “Just watch the broadcast, Judy. Ring me if it’s not coming through live.”
    “You got it.”
    Claire replaced the fone in her pack and turned to Spengle.
    Spengle said, “Ms. Rimpler, we’ll have link-up in a minute or two. In the meantime—”
    He looked at the gawking assemblage of children. “I heard someone up here has refused to go back to the dorms.”
    “Anthony!” they chorused. “Z’Anthony!”
    Claire said, “That’s something you must already know, Spengle, since your people—”
    Anthony interrupted her by stepping up to Spengle, half turning so the camera could pick him up clearly. He’d been drilled well.
    A finger-sized directional mike on the bottom of the camera swiveled back and forth between Spengle and Anthony as they spoke.
    “We’ve got live,” the cameraman said, pressing the earplug of his headset.
    Spengle nodded, repeated his earlier spiel, and bent to interview Anthony. From technicki:
    “Your name is Anthony Fiorello?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You’re one of the children refusing to go back to the dorms?”
    “There’s only one refusing!” Claire broke in. Spengle ignored her. And probably it didn’t pick up on the mike.
    “Why is that, Anthony?”
    “It’s crowded there and it smells bad and I’m just as good as Admin people, so how come I can’t live in the Central with the parks where it’s nice like the Admins?” Just a touch mechanical, hinting at rote.
    “Anthony—how many people live in Colony? Do you know?”
    “Sure, we learned that. About ten thousand people.”
    “And how many live in Central in the nice dorms, or in the Open out of all that?”
    “One thousand.”
    “Does anything else bother you about all this, Anthony?”
    “Well, I came out here and it looks so empty! There’s some houses down there, but they’re a long way away! There’s room here for technics and maintens!”
    Claire was fed up. “You want to interview me, it’s got to be now. I’m due back at Admin,” she called out. “Come on, kids!” She turned to the others. “Get your things together; we’re going to have to go soon.” Some of them stirred, others stood unmoving, gaping at the cameraman, mesmerized by the technological totem on his shoulder. The reporters, she realized, had usurped her authority over the children. And that was a bad omen.
    “Ms. Rimpler,” Spengle said, “has just said she hasn’t got time to talk with us.” Heavy sarcastic emphasis on hasn’t got time. “So we’ll have to go back to you, Ben, at TechniWave Central—”
    “It isn’t true!” Claire shouted, rushing up to the camera. “That’s not what I said!—” And then she stopped talking, just stopped, feeling foolish, realizing the light was out on the camera, that it was no longer transmitting and hadn’t been for a while.
    And Spengle had turned his back to her, was walking away in close, soft conversation with the flatsuiter . . . 
    Half an hour later Claire stood alone on the platform of the park railstop, watching the car that had come along the axis rail-line to take the children back to the dorms; watching it recede as it carried the children to the north end of the Colony, the dorms and the uncompleted area, while she waited for the train that would take her to the arbitrary south. Hating the glaring symbolism of the moment, she chewed a thumbnail, thinking that once the camera was gone, Anthony had lost interest in boycotting the dorms. He was first on the train, eager for the arcades.
    She’d crossed to the southward station and stood looking toward the huge retina-like windows above Admin central. A ring of verdant green encircled the windows. Within the ring, mist curled in gentle spirals, refracting the light in muted rainbows. It was quiet in the parkland; there was a gentle, manufactured breeze smelling of growing things—and only faintly of air filterant—and for a moment