The Hitchhiking Effect

The Burden of Indigo-2

Smiling, the scarlet man spooned up another steamy mouthful. He nodded toward the bank of machines behind the indigo man, next to the door.

As was customary they ate in silence.

Finished, the two men talked—tentatively, at first, like shy children.

“Hot.” The indigo man gestured to the door and outside.

“Yes,” the giant said, nodding slowly.

“You’re the first person I’ve talked to in several weeks.”

“Hmm.”

“In fact, you’re the first C-P I’ve seen in that time.”

The scarlet man’s brow wrinkled slightly. He nodded. “It’s a lonely time.” His voice was gentle and soft, at odds with his huge frame and violent color.

“Have you wandered long?” asked the indigo man.

“Yes. Ten years…” He stared into his ale. Raising his head, he asked, “And yourself ?”

“Longer. Twenty-two years.”

After reflecting for a moment, the scarlet man said, “Three days ago I met an amber woman—”

“Excuse me,” the indigo man interrupted. “Amber? I am not familiar with the offense.”

“Oh, amber,” the scarlet man murmured, “yes…it is a new one. I don’t think it is major like the darker colors, but I don’t know exactly.”

For a minute neither man spoke, both sipping their remaining ale.

Presently the scarlet man cleared his throat. “The lack of C-Ps reminded me of the amber woman. She’d recently been assigned the color, and her mind was full of philosophy about the law and such.” The giant paused, watching the indigo man’s face for encouragement to continue.

Smiling wryly, the indigo man tried to remember his thoughts after being assigned indigo. He couldn’t recall specifically, but he doubted they were philosophical. “Continue, please. You were saying the amber woman discussed thoughts about legal philosophy?”

“Well, I don’t remember it all, and some I didn’t understand. But I recall the gist of it. She mentioned a long-term research project—social biology? Anyhow, she said the judgments of color were a deterrent effect on social offenses. The result is that there are fewer and fewer C-Ps, especially major offenders like you and me.”

The indigo man nodded; he had suspected something like that was happening. Probably been working from the start, gradually reducing the number of offenses.

“Smoke?” the scarlet man asked, rising to his full height, over two meters.

“Yes.” The indigo man accompanied the giant to the machines near the door. In turn they each palmed the sensor on the Shadowsmoke dispenser. Returning to their seats, both men were silent. They broke the ampules, sniffing the blue smoke. Since he was already tired, the narcotic made the indigo man feel limp, completely worn out. But he couldn’t go to bed yet. He still hadn’t brought up the color loss. Try as he might, he could think of no easy way to open the conversation. The scarlet man was difficult to talk to.

Finally he blurted out, “Have you ever met a C-P who was losing his color?”

Raising his eyebrows, the giant mumbled, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’ll show you.” Reaching into his pack, the indigo man withdrew the lock of hair and a tiny pair of scissors. He clipped off a snip from his head and laid the two on the table side by side. “Which is darker?” he asked, gesturing at the two tufts of hair.

Studying the samples, the scarlet man said, “I-I-I’m not certain.” He looked questioningly into the indigo man’s eyes.

“I think my color is fading,” the indigo man explained. The scarlet man shook his head, confused.

“Well,” the indigo man continued, unable to keep the excitement down in his rising voice, “several weeks ago, I noticed a change in color. A fading! So I cut this sample as a standard for comparison” he pointed to the older clipping “—and I check each day. I’ve never heard of anyone losing their color…but I am.” Again he indicated the proof on the table. “Have you heard of it happening?”

Shaking his head, the giant leaned over and examined the two locks very closely. He looked back at the indigo man. “No. No, I’ve never heard of anyone’s color changing.” Gently he rested a large hand on the indigo man’s shoulder. “But you are probably right,” he said, his voice louder. “I’m not a good judge, but I think I see the color difference.” He shifted his gaze to the empty mug. The indigo man smiled at the obvious lie. A kind man, he thought, difficult to imagine him harming anyone seriously. Then he looked at the two locks and frowned. He put the darker lock back in his pack.

“Strange,” the scarlet man said softly, “in all the years, I’ve never even thought of the possibility. Why, the significance—”

“Freedom!” The indigo man wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. His heart thumped rapidly; he had trouble catching his breath.

With a slightly awed expression, the scarlet man asked, “But what could cause it? A problem with the coloring implant?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He had calmed himself. “A malfunction in the implant would be picked up by one of the palm sensors in a door or food machine and conveyed back to Central Control. By now, I’d have been visited by a Caretaker. No, that’s not the cause.”

“Well, for God’s sake, what—?”

“I think I’m cured…or almost.”

LA-Couver Zone: June 7, 2049

Today I met a scarlet man…

Again, blistering heat. The indigo man was soaked with sweat, exhausted before noon. He left the highway, stumbling down a slope beyond the road’s shoulder. He listened, hearing water splashing over rocks. Then he caught the reflections of the creek flowing through the mottled shadowing of large black oaks. He moved, attracted by the cool shade of the trees and the sound of the brook. Suddenly he stopped, a gasp frozen in his throat.

A freeman child.

Highlighted by a shaft of sunlight, the young boy sat on a rock outcrop, flipping tiny wads of bread into the water, watching trout strike the bread balls. But it was the boy’s appearance that had stolen the indigo man’s breath.

The child’s head was covered by an unruly mass of blond ringlets; the light playing through the hair made it fuzzy white like a dandelion puffball. His cheeks were flushed by the heat and excitement of his play, the pink contrasting sharply with his fair skin.

The stillness was disturbed by the boy’s laugh as a fish leaped from the water, splashing back into the brook. The lad’s dark blue eyes sparkled with joy. His dress was typical for the area: brown leather shorts held up by crossed shoulder straps. No shirt, no shoes. His body, chubby with baby fat, was fair, slightly tanned—the color of a walnut shell. But it was the boy’s arms and hands that caught the indigo man’s attention. They seemed to be in perpetual motion: tossing, scratching, clapping, rubbing pants, fingers shaking with glee. And the arms were covered with downy hair that glittered golden in the sunlight.

The beautiful child reminded the indigo man of an old-fashioned religious postcard that he had seen, except that the boy lacked a halo. As he spied on the lad, his exhaustion drained away, replaced by a tingling excitement.

The boy laughed again. A melodious sound.

He had used up the bread, but the fish still struck at little pebbles that he tossed into the water.

Carefully the indigo man moved closer, afraid of disturbing the beauty of the scene but nevertheless drawn closer to the child. The boy’s arms stopped throwing and rested in his lap; he c****d his head, listening. Pausing within arm’s reach, the indigo man stared down on the dandelion fuzz. A vein throbbed in his throat.

The boy faced toward the indigo man, blinded by the sun but sensing a presence. He smiled. “Mama—?”

Kneeling, the indigo man reached out slowly and stroked the fine golden hair on the boy’s arm. His throat tightened, preventing a moan of delight. So, so fine, he thought. The child’s fresh, baby-like scent was overpowering. The indigo man felt dizzy. Then he sensed the lad stiffen under his stroking.

Jerking away, the boy tumbled backward into the shade. He looked up into the face of the indigo man, and his eyes widened with terror. “Ah, ah, ah—”

Alarmed, the indigo man raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. His heart jumped erratically in his chest. He swallowed, trying to relieve the tightness in his throat.

Beyond reassurance, the child cried hoarsely, “C-c-colored, colored…” He made choking sounds, finally bursting into sobs of panic. “Mama, mama!” he screamed, edging away.

The indigo man stood frozen, trying to calm the hysterical child with the right gesture, putting his forefinger to his lips. Nothing worked.

Suddenly—

“Davy boy! Oh, Davy boy! Run! Run! Davy!” The woman stood on the slope of the shoulder, screaming at the lad. “Come here, Davy!”

He scrambled up the slope, blubbering, “Mama, Mama.”

She swooped him up and smothered him to her chest. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe.” Her voice was soft, a coo.

After a few moments, the boy’s sobs quieted down.

The woman looked down on the indigo man. From the gentleness of motherly concern, her features hardened into a mask of rage and disgust. She tried to speak, but no sound came out; she only spewed white flecks of dry spittle. Finally she managed, “You, you dirty, dirty old—” She stopped, her face deepening in color.

“—pervert!” Coughing violently, she strangled on the force and effort of her exclamation. Setting the boy down, she screamed, “You, you—”

The indigo man shook his head emphatically. “No, no. I meant no harm to the boy.”

Eyes widening with surprise, the woman shouted, “You dare break silence?” Her fists balled. “I should have you shot!” Instead, she reached down and gathered a handful of stones. The boy imitated his mother. The two showered the indigo man with pebbles.

At first, he shielded his face with his arms.

No, he thought, I couldn’t harm the boy. I’m well. But deep in his chest he felt a twinge of uncertainty. He shook his head, denying the feeling. No, no it was only the child’s beauty. I meant no harm…But he wasn’t sure. And he was swept by a feeling of guilt.

His arms dropped, suddenly heavy with his uncertainty.

Only a few stones actually struck his face, and they seemed no more significant than raindrops.

“Take that, you terrible, terrible—”

“Colored man!” the boy added hatefully.

He could feel a trickle of blood running down his forehead; but still he stood unmoving, rooted to the spot.

Breathless, the woman finally stopped throwing stones. She stomped the ground, then led the little boy up the slope and out of sight.

Time passed.

Eventually, he slumped, dropping to the ground where he’d stood during the stoning. The sun crept overhead; then it dropped. A cricket chirped, answered by the croak of a bullfrog.

Dazed, the indigo man touched the cuts on his face and forehead, the aching dried crusts. He felt weary. Taking off his pack, he lay down and curled into a ball. His dream was troubled: He was a boy again, chased by a naked man covered with smears of color—a rainbow man. He ran and ran, finally dropping exhausted in a field of flowers. He sank down in the reds, blues, yellows, and oranges, smothered by color. He couldn’t catch his breath…

Off and on during the night, pains in his left arm woke the indigo man.

LA-Couver Zone: June 9, 2049

There is no entry for yesterday. I slept in the woods. My joints are stiff and sore, but my thoughts more painful. A few minutes ago I made a comparison of hair to the standard. I think the fresh lock is lighter, but I am not positive.

If the color is fading, my theory really does not explain it. Why should my being cured have any influence on the coloring implant? I cannot recall my original reasoning. I can only recall excitement at the idea—but the scientific basis? Perhaps it was nothing more than wishful thinking.

I am not sure that the compulsive urge that led to my assignment of indigo is gone.

So in the future I will make careful, honest comparisons of the hair samples. And I will reexamine my heart for traces of the evil urge. Perhaps, if I find that my color is really changing, I will meet other C-Ps who can suggest realistic explanations for the loss.

But I am changing in some ways. Age is sapping my stamina and something is wrong with my hand and arm—circulation or something? I am afraid to go to the med center.

Nausea. Dizziness. Headache. Pins and needles in his left arm. He awakened sick. After a few minutes on the road, he sat down on the curb of the median to rest, to catch his breath. Staring up the highway, he saw the air dance and shimmer. But it’s too early for heat waves, he thought. He blinked, but his vision remained blurry. He tried to rub feeling into his dead arm—

Suddenly a tremendous pain slammed into his chest, as if he had been struck by a sledgehammer. He straightened up, stunned, paralyzed by pain; then he gasped and vomited violently. The pain had changed to a sharp stabbing sensation, each thrust taking away his breath. In agony, he rolled over and inched himself under the shade of an oleander. He lay on his back, gasping for air. Again the invisible sledgehammer slammed into his chest. His vision tunneled, his ears rang, and a numbness crept over him.

Blackness. Coolness.

A flicking coolness across his face.

It was a good feeling, drawing his attention from the dull ache in his chest. With great effort he forced open his eyes. The brightness brought another wave of nausea that made him moan. Everything was fuzzy. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. A man leaned over him.

“Wh—?”

He gagged, his throat raw and vile with the taste of his own juices; he coughed, closing his eyes, fighting the dizziness and nausea. Again he felt the cooling sensation across his brow. He reopened his eyes, but didn’t try to talk.

The man was naked.

His body was covered with smears and dabs of color. All over. His hair, even his eyes were flecked with multicolor. The indigo man shuddered with the recognition. It was the rainbow man! The man in his dream!

Breathing deeply in and out, the indigo man felt better. He looked more closely at the rainbow man. He wasn’t completely nude; around his waist he wore a wide leather belt. Hooked to the belt were many brushes of different sizes and shapes—artist’s brushes.

Brush in hand, the painter dabbed at the indigo man’s face. The flicking coolness. He brought the brush back and wiped a smear of indigo on his chest. Each time the painter dabbed with the cooling brush, he wiped it off somewhere on his body, leaving a fresh streak of indigo.

Am I dead? the indigo man wondered.

The pain in his chest reminded him that he was still alive.

Hand and brush a blur, the painter worked on the indigo man’s face. Dab, dab, dab. Then he stroked the indigo man’s arms. And everywhere he touched, the painter wiped away a patch of indigo.

Finally the rainbow man stopped.

He stared for a moment, admiring his work; then he bent down again and gently flicked the indigo man’s nose. The touch was cool, almost icy. The painter nodded and grinned, his flecked eyes glittering like a kaleidoscope.

The indigo man clutched his chest with his right hand as his heart beat erratically, each thump sending a wave of new pain. He’d never felt so tired. It was an effort to breathe. He closed his eyes.

Then it occurred to the indigo man that the painter was only a fantasy, that he was really lying on the median all alone, hallucinating. A dream. Inwardly he smiled; it didn’t really matter. He’d been alone for the last twenty-two years.

With an effort, he opened his eyes, focusing again on the rainbow man. The painter reached to the back of his belt and held up an object.

The indigo man blinked. It was a mirror.

He squeezed his eyelids together tightly, clearing his vision, and stared into the mirror. He saw a stranger, a man. An old man with hair whiter than the cleanest cloud, with a beard the color of fresh-fallen snow, with thick, cottony eyebrows. Nowhere on the old man’s freshly scrubbed face was there even a speck of color.

The indigo man watched as a tiny tear trickled down the old man’s cheek.

Heavy now, the indigo man’s eyelids sagged. He forced them open.

The rainbow man had disappeared.

He looked up into the sky at the fleecy white clouds and smiled.

Then he closed his eyes and rested, relieved of his burden at last.