Isaac Asimov - 03 Robot 10.4 - Strip-Runner # Pamela Sargent.pdf

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Strip-Runner
by Pamela Sargent
T HE THREE BOYS CAUGHT UP WITH AMY JUST AS SHE REACHED the strips.
“Barone-Stein,” one boy shouted to her. She did not recognize any of them, but they obviously knew
who she was.
“We want a run,” the smallest boy said, speaking softly so that the people passing them could not
hear the challenge. “You can lead and pick the point.”
“Done,” she said quickly. “C-254th, Riverdale localway intersection. “
The boys frowned. Maybe they had expected a longer run. They seemed young; the tallest one
could not be more than eleven. Amy leaned over and rolled up the cuffs of her pants a little. She could
shake all of them before they reached the destination she had named.
More people passed and stepped onto the nearest strip. The moving gray bands stretched endlessly
to either side of her, carrying their human cargo through the City. The strip closest to her was moving at a
bit over three kilometers an hour; most of its passengers at the moment were elderly people or small
children practicing a few dance steps where there was space. Next to it, another strip moved at over five
kilometers an hour; in the distance, on the fastest strip, the passengers were a multicolored blur. All the
strips carried a steady stream of people, but the evening rush hour would not start for a couple of hours.
The boys had challenged her during a slower period, which meant they weren’t that sure of themselves;
they would not risk a run through mobs of commuters.
“Let’s go,” Amy said. She stepped on the strip; the boys got on behind her. Ahead, people were
stepping to the adjoining strip, slowly making their way toward the fastest-moving strip that ran alongside
the localway platform. Advertisements flashed around her through the even, phosphorescent light,
offering clothing, the latest book-films, exotic beverages, and yet another hyperwave drama about a
Spacer’s adventures on Earth. Above her, light-worms and bright arrows gleamed steadily with
directions for the City’s millions: THIS WAY TO JERSEY SECTIONS; FOLLOW ARROW TO
LONG ISLAND. The noise was constant. Voices rose and fell around her as the strip hummed softly
under her feet; she could dimly hear the whistle of the localway.
Amy walked up the strip, darted past a knot of people, then crossed to the next strip, bending her
knees slightly to allow for the increase in speed. She did not look back, knowing the boys were still
behind her. She took a breath, quickly stepped to the next strip, ran along it toward the passengers up
ahead, and then jumped to the fourth strip. She pivoted, jumped to the third strip again, then rapidly
crossed three strips in succession.
Running the strips was a lot like dancing. She kept up the rhythm as she leaped to the right, leaned
into the wind, then jumped to the slower strip on her left. Amy grinned as a man shook his head at her.
The timid ways of most riders were not for her. Others shrank from the freedom the gray bands offered,
content to remain part of a channeled stream. They seemed deaf to the music of the strips and the song
that beckoned to her.
Amy glanced back; she had already lost one of the boys. Moving to the left edge of the strip, she
feinted, then jumped to her right, pushed past a startled woman, and continued along the strips until she
reached the fastest one.
Her left arm was up, to shield her from the wind; this strip, like the localway, was moving at nearly
thirty-eight kilometers an hour. The localway was a constantly moving platform, with poles for boarding
and clear shields placed at intervals to protect riders from the wind. Amy grabbed a pole and swung
herself aboard.
There was just enough room for her to squeeze past the standing passengers. The two remaining
boys had followed her onto the localway; a woman muttered angrily as Amy shoved past her to the other
side.
She jumped down to the strip below, which was also moving at the localway’s speed, hauled
 
herself aboard the platform once more, then leaped back to the strip. One boy was still with her, a few
paces behind. His companion must have hesitated a little, not expecting her to leap to the strip again so
soon. Any good striprunner would have expected it; no runner stayed on a localway or expressway very
long. She jumped to a slower strip, counted to herself, leaped back to the faster strip, counted again,
then grabbed a pole, bounded onto the localway, pushed past more people to the opposite side, and
launched herself at the strip below, her back to the wind, her legs shooting out into a split. Usually she
disdained such moves at the height of a run, but could not resist showing her skill this time.
She landed about a meter in front of a scowling man.
“Crazy kids!” he shouted. “Ought to report you—” She turned toward the wind and stepped to the
strip on her left, bracing herself against the deceleration as the angry man was swept by her on the faster
strip, then looked back. The third boy was nowhere to be seen among the stream of people behind her.
Too easy, she thought. She had shaken them all even before reaching the intersection that led to the
Concourse Sector. She would go on to the destination, so that the boys, when they got there, could issue
another challenge if they wished. She doubted that they would; she would have just enough time to make
her way home afterward.
They should have known better. They weren’t good enough runners to keep up with Amy
Barone-Stein. She had lost Kiyoshi Harris, one of the best strip-runners in the City, on a two-hour run to
the end of Brooklyn, and had reached Queens alone on another run after shaking off Bradley Ohaer’s
gang. She smiled as she recalled how angry Bradley had been, beaten by a girl. Few girls ran the strips,
and she was better than any of the others at the game. For over a year now, no one she challenged had
ever managed to shake her off; when she led, nobody could keep up with her. She was the best girl
strip-runner in New York City, maybe in all of Earth’s Cities.
No, she told herself as she crossed the strips to the expressway intersection. She was simply the
best.
Amy’s home was in a Kingsbridge subsection. Her feeling of triumph had faded by the time she
reached the elevator banks that led to her level; she was not that anxious to get home. Throngs of people
moved along the street between the high metallic walls that enclosed some of the City’s millions. All of
Earth’s Cities were like New York, where people had burrowed into the ground and walled themselves
in; they were safe inside the Cities, protected from the emptiness of the Outside.
Amy pushed her way into an elevator. A wedding party was aboard, the groom in a dark ruffled
tunic and pants, the bride in a short white dress with her hands around a bouquet of flowers made of
recycled paper. The people with them were holding bottles and packages of rations clearly meant for the
reception. The couple smiled at Amy; she murmured her congratulations as the elevator stopped at her
level.
She sprinted down the hall until she came to a large double door with glowing letters that said
PERSONAL—WOMEN. Under the sign, smaller letters said SUBSECTIONS 2H-2N; there was also
a number to call in case anyone lost a key. Amy unzipped her pocket, took out a thin aluminum strip, and
slipped it into the key slot.
The door opened. Several women were in the pleasant rose-colored antechamber, talking as they
combed their hair and sprayed on makeup by the wall of mirrors. They did not greet Amy, so she said
nothing to them. Her father, like most men, found it astonishing that women felt free to speak to one
another in such a place. No man would ever address another in the Men’s Personals; even glancing at
someone there was considered extremely offensive. Men would never stand around gossiping in a
Personal’s antechamber, but things were not quite as free here as her father thought. Women would
never speak to anyone who clearly preferred privacy, or greet a new subsection resident here until they
knew her better.
Amy stood by a mirror and smoothed down her short, dark curls, then entered the common stalls.
A long row of toilets, with thin partitions but no doors, lined one wall; a row of sinks faced them on the
other side of the room.
 
A young woman was kneeling next to one toilet, where a small child sat on a training seat; Amy
could not help noticing that the child was a boy. That was allowed, until a boy was four and old enough
to go to a Men’s Personal by himself or with his father, an experience that had to be traumatic the first
time around. She thought of what it must be like for a little boy, leaving the easier, warmer atmosphere of
his mother’s Personal for the men’s, where even looking in someone else’s direction was taboo. Some
said the custom arose because of the need to preserve some privacy in the midst of others, but
psychologists also claimed that the taboo grew out of the male’s need to separate himself from his
mother. No wonder men behaved as they did in their Personals. They would not only be infringing on
another’s privacy if they behaved otherwise, but would also be displaying an inappropriate regression to
childhood.
Amy kept her eyes down, ignoring the other women and girls in the common stalls until she reached
the rows of shower heads. Two women were entering the private stalls in the back. Amy’s mother had
been allowed a private stall some years ago, a privilege her husband had earned for both of them after a
promotion, but Amy was not allowed to use it. Other parents might have granted such permission, but
hers were stricter; they did not want their daughter getting too used to privileges she had not earned for
herself.
She would take her shower now, and put her clothes in the laundry slot to be cleaned; the Personal
would be more crowded after dinner. Amy sighed; that wasn’t the only reason to linger here. Her mother
would have received the message from Mr. Liang by now. Amy was afraid to go home and face her.
Four women were leaving the apartment as Amy approached. She greeted them absently, and
nodded when they asked if she was doing well in school. These were her mother’s more intellectual
friends, the ones who discussed sociology and settled the City’s political problems among themselves
before moving on to the essential business of tips for stretching quota allowances and advice on
child-rearing.
Amy’s mother stepped back as she entered; the door closed. Amy had reached the middle of the
spacious living room before her mother spoke. “Where are you going, dear?”
“Er—to my room.”
“I think you’d better sit down. We have something to discuss.”
Amy moved toward one of the chairs and sat down. The living room was over five meters long,
with two chairs, a small couch, and an imitation leather ottoman. The apartment had two other rooms as
well, and her parents even had the use of a sink in their bedroom, thanks to her father’s Civil Service
rating. They both had a lot to protect, which meant that they would scold her even more for her failures.
“You took longer than usual getting home,” her mother said as she sat down on the couch across
from Amy.
“I had to shower. Oh, shouldn’t we be getting ready to go to supper? Father’ll probably be home
any minute. “
“He told me he’d be late, so we’re not eating in the section kitchen tonight. “
Amy bit her lip, sorry for once that her family was allowed four meals a week in their own
apartment. Her parents wouldn’t have been able to harp at her at the section kitchen’s long tables in the
midst of all the diners there.
“Anyway,” her mother continued, “I felt sure you’d want to speak to me alone, before your father
comes home.”
“Oh.” Amy stared at the blue carpet. “What about?”
“You know what about. I had a message from your guidance counselor, Mr. Liang. I know he told
you he’d be speaking to me.”
“Oh.” Amy tried to sound unconcerned. “That.”
“He says your grades won’t be good at the end of the quarter.” Her mother’s dark eyes narrowed.
“If they don’t improve soon, he’s going to invite me there for a conference, and that’s not all.” She leaned
back against the couch. “He also says you’ve been seen running the strips.”
 
Amy started. “Who told him that?”
“Oh, Amy. I’m sure he has ways of finding out. Is it true?”
“Um.”
“Well, is it? That’s even more serious than your grades. Do you want a police officer picking you
up? Did you even stop to think about the accidents you might cause, or that you could be seriously
injured? You know what your father said the first time he heard about your strip-running. “
Amy bowed her head. That had been over two years ago, and he had lectured her for hours, but
had remained unaware of her activities since then. I’m the best, she thought; every runner in the City
knows about me. She wanted to shout it and force her mother to acknowledge the achievement, but kept
silent.
“It’s a stupid, dangerous game, Amy. A few boys are killed every year running the strips, and
passengers are hurt as well. You’re fourteen now—I thought you were more mature. I can’t believe—”
“I haven’t been running the strips,” Amy said. “I mean, I haven’t made a run in a while.” Not since a
couple of hours ago, she added silently to herself, and that wasn’t a real run, so I’m not really lying. She
felt just a bit guilty; she didn’t like to lie.
“And your grades—”
Amy seized at the chance to avoid the more hazardous topic of strip-racing. “I know they’re worse.
I know I can do better, but what difference does it make?”
“Don’t you want to do well? You used to be one of the best math students in your school, and your
science teacher always praised—”
“So what?” Amy could not restrain herself any longer. “What good is it? What am I ever going to
use it for?”
“You have to do well if you want to be admitted to a college level. Your father’s status may make it
easier for you to get in, but you won’t last if you’re not well prepared.”
“And then what? Unless I’m a genius, or a lot better than any of the boys, they’ll just push me into
dietetics courses or social relations or child psychology so I’ll be a good mother someday, or else train
me to program computers until I get married. I’ll just end up doing nothing anyway, so why should I try?”
“Nothing?” Her mother’s olive-skinned face was calm, but her voice shook a little. “Is what I do
nothing, looking after you and your father? Is rearing a child and making a pleasant home for a husband
nothing?”
“I didn’t mean nothing, but why does it have to be everything? You wanted more once—you know
you did. You—you—”.
Her mother was gazing at her impassively. Amy jumped up and fled to her room.
She lay on her narrow bed, glaring up at the soft glow of the ceiling. Her mother should have been
the first to understand. Amy knew how she once had felt, but lately, she seemed to have forgotten her old
dreams.
Amy’s mother, Alysha Barone, was something of a Medievalist. That wasn’t odd; a lot of people
were. They got together to talk about old ways and historical bookfilms and the times when Earth had
been humanity’s only home. They dwelled nostalgically on ancient periods when people had lived
Outside instead of huddling together inside the Cities, when Earth was the only world and the Spacers
did not exist.
Not that any of them could actually live Outside, without walls, breathing unfiltered air filled with
microorganisms that bred disease and eating unprocessed food that had grown in dirt; Amy shuddered at
the thought. Better to leave the Outside to the robots that worked the mines and tended the crops the
Cities demanded. Better to live as they did, whatever the problems, and avoid the pathological ways of
the Spacers, those descendants of the Earthpeople who had settled other planets long ago. They could
not follow Spacer customs anyway. In a world of billions, resources could not be wasted on private
houses, spacious gardens and grounds, and all the rest. Alysha Barone, despite her somewhat
Medievalist views, would not be capable of leaving this City except to travel, safely enclosed, to another.
 
Her mother had, however, clung to a few ancient customs, with the encouragement of a few mildly
unconventional friends. Alysha Barone had insisted on keeping her own name after her marriage to
Ricardo Stein, and he had agreed when she asked that Amy be given both their names. The couple had
been given permission to have their first child during their first year of marriage, thanks to their Genetics
Values ratings, but Amy had not been born until four years later. Both Alysha and Ricardo had been
statisticians in New York’s Department of Human Resources; it made sense to work for a promotion,
gain more privileges, and save more of their quota allowances before having a child. They had ignored
the chiding of their own parents and the friends who had accused them of being just a little antisocial.
Amy knew the story well, having heard most of it from her disapproving grandmother Barone. The
two had each risen to a C-4 rating before Alysha became pregnant; even then, astonishingly, they had
discussed which of them should give up the Department job. Only the most antisocial of couples would
have tried to keep two such coveted positions. There were too many unclassified people without work,
on subsistence with no chance to rise, and others who had been relegated to labor in the City yeast farm
levels after losing jobs to robots. Her parents’ colleagues would have made their lives miserable if they
both stayed with the Department; their superiors would have blocked any promotions, perhaps even
found a way to demote them. Someone also had to look after Amy. The infant could not be left in the
subsection nursery all day, and both grandmothers had refused to encourage any antisocial activity by
offering to stay with the baby.
So Alysha had given up her job. Her husband might be willing to care for a baby, but he could not
nurse the child, and nursing saved on rations. Ricardo had won another promotion a few years after
Amy’s birth, and they had moved from their two-room place in the Van
Cortlandt Section to this apartment. Now Amy’s father was a C-6, with a private stall in the Men’s
Personal, a functioning sink in his room, larger quota allowances for entertainment, and the right to eat
four meals a week at home.
Her parents would have been foolish to give up a chance at all that. How useless it would have been
for Alysha to hope for her position at the Department; they would have risked everything in the end.
The door opened; her mother came inside. Amy sat up. Her small bed took up most of the room;
there was no other place to sit, and Alysha clearly wanted to talk.
Her mother seated herself, then draped an arm over Amy’s shoulders. “I know how you feel,” she
said.
Amy shook her head. “No, you don’t.”
Her mother hugged her more tightly. “I felt that way myself once, but couldn’t see that I’d be any
better off not trying at all. You should learn what you can, Amy, and not just so that you’ll be able to help
your own children with their schoolwork. Learning will give you pleasure later, something you’ll carry
inside yourself that no one can take from you. Things may change, and then—”
“They’ll never change. I wish—Things were better in the old days. “
“No, they weren’t,” her mother responded. “They were better for a few people and very bad for a
lot of others. I may affect a few Medievalisms, but I also know how people fought and starved and
suffered long ago, and the Cities are better than that. No one starves, and we can, generally speaking, go
about our business without fearing violence, but that requires cooperation—we couldn’t live, crowded
together as we are, any other way. We have to get along, and that often means giving up what we might
want so that everyone at least has something. Still—”
“I get the point,” Amy said bitterly. “Civism is good. The Cities are the height of human civilization.”
She imitated the pompous manner of her history teacher as she spoke. “ And if I can’t get along and be
grateful for what I’ve got, I’m just a pathological antisocial individualist. “
Her mother was silent for a long time, then said, “There are more robots taking jobs away from
people inside the Cities. The population keeps growing, and that means people will eventually have even
less—we could see something close to starvation again. The Cities can’t expand much more, and that
means less space for each of us. People may lash out at an occasional robot now, since they’re the most
 

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