Harry Harrison - Make room Make room

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Make Room! Make Room! by Harry Harrison
Harry Harrison
MAKE ROOM! MAKE ROOM!
basis for the movie "Soylent Green"
To
TODD and MOIRA
For your sakes, children,
I hope this proves to be a work of fiction.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part 2
Chapter 1
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Make Room! Make Room! by Harry Harrison
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Suggestions
Introduction
One of the most ominous trends in a world replete with ominous trends is the accelerating growth of
urban populations. In part, this is directly due to the population explosion—people are being born at a
faster rate than they are dying. But population growth also contributes indirectly. For instance, as the
total world population skyrockets, more and more pressure develops to mechanize farming, and farm
workers displaced by tractors and combines go to seek their fortunes in the city. And, of course,
many people just prefer to live in cities.
The results of the "population explosion" in cities are getting increasing publicity. Tokyo Bay is
frantically being filled with garbage in order to obtain land for expansion of a city already so
crowded that there is a two-year wait for middle class apartments. Calcutta today has hundreds of
thousands of people living homeless in its streets; yet it seems inevitable that Calcutta's population
will increase to 12 million by 1990, if the city grows only as fast as the rest of India. In the
underdeveloped countries, cities increased in size by 55 percent in the decade 1950-1960. When the
data for 1960-1970 are available, urban growth for that decade can be expected to have been even
more spectacular. The inability of those countries to care for their burgeoning urban populations is
easily seen in the spectacular slums associated with them. Less visible are the high rates of
unemployment and social unrest that follow such rapid urbanization.
The developed countries, with an overall rate of urban growth less than half that of the poor nations,
have also faced increasingly serious problems in their cities. These have been especially intense in
the United States, where the urban population has more than doubled in the last half century, and the
proportion of urban dwellers has changed from less than half of the population to nearly three-
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Make Room! Make Room! by Harry Harrison
fourths. The problems of American cities, such as the degeneration of city centers and uncontrolled
growth and development at the periphery, have been the topic of an enormous volume of literature.
The cities themselves have been the target of numerous, often unsuccessful programs of
rehabilitation.
Projection of even the mid-range future of urban areas presents well nigh insuperable problems. We
can be reasonably sure of some things, however. For instance, the current pattern of urban population
growth won't continue much past the turn of the century. Demographer Kingsley Davis has projected
those growth trends, with startling results. If the post-1950 rates of urban growth continue to 1984,
half of the human race will be living in cities. By 2023 everyone would live in an urban area, and by
2044 everyone would live in cities with a million or more population. If by some negative miracle the
trends continued that long, the largest "city" would have a population of 1.4 billion souls, one of
every 10 human beings.
But the results of such projections, while instructive, are also preposterous. We know things won't
work out that way as far as the numbers living in cities are concerned. Moreover, we are completely
ignorant of future trends in urban living conditions. We must leave these to our imaginations—or
better yet to the talented imaginations of writers like Harry Harrison. Make Room! Make Room!
presents a gripping scenario of where current trends may be leading. Such scenarios are important
tools in helping us to think about the future, and in bringing home to people the possible
consequences of our collective behavior. When such a serious goal can be achieved through an
engrossing work of fiction we are doubly rewarded. Thank you, Harry Harrison.
Paul R. Ehrlich
PROLOGUE
In December, 1959, The President of the United States, Dwight D. Eisenhower, said: "This
government... will not... as long as I am here, have a positive political doctrine in its program that has
to do with this problem of birth control. That is not our business." It has not been the business of any
American government since that time.
In 1950 the United States—with just 9.5 per cent of the world's population—was consuming 50 per
cent of the world's raw materials. This percentage keeps getting bigger and within fifteen years, at the
present rate of growth, the United States will be consuming over 83 per cent of the annual output of
the earth's materials. By the end of the century, should our population continue to increase at the
same rate, this country will need more than 100 per cent of the planet's resources to maintain our
current living standards. This is a mathematical impossibility—aside from the fact that there will be
about seven billion people on this earth at that time and—perhaps—they would like to have some of
the raw materials too.
In which case, what will the world be like?
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Make Room! Make Room! by Harry Harrison
MONDAY, AUGUST 9, 1999
NEW YORK CITY—stolen from the trusting Indians by the wily Dutch, taken from the law-abiding
Dutch by the warlike British, then wrested in turn from the peaceful British by the revolutionary
colonials. Its trees were burned decades ago, its hills leveled and the fresh ponds drained and filled,
while the crystal springs have been imprisoned underground and spill their pure waters directly into
the sewers. Reaching out urbanizing tentacles from its island home, the city has become a
megalopolis with four of its five boroughs blanketing half of one island over a hundred miles long,
engulfing another island, and sprawling up the Hudson River onto the mainland of North America.
The fifth and original borough is Manhattan: a slab of primordial granite and metamorphic rock
bounded on all sides by water, squatting like a steel and stone spider in the midst of its web of
bridges, tunnels, tubes, cables and ferries. Unable to expand outward, Manhattan has writhed upward,
feeding on its own flesh as it tears down the old buildings to replace them with the new, rising higher
and still higher—yet never high enough, for there seems to be no limit to the people crowding here.
They press in from the outside and raise their families, and their children and their children's children
raise families, until this city is populated as no other city has ever been in the history of the world.
On this hot day in August in the year 1999 there are—give or take a few thousand—thirty-five
million people in the City of New York.
PART ONE
1
The August sun struck in through the open window and burned on Andrew Rusch's bare legs until
discomfort dragged him awake from the depths of heavy sleep. Only slowly did he become aware of
the heat and the damp and gritty sheet beneath his body. He rubbed at his gummed-shut eyelids, then
lay there, staring up at the cracked and stained plaster of the ceiling, only half awake and
experiencing a feeling of dislocation, not knowing in those first waking moments just where he was,
although he had lived in this room for over seven years. He yawned and the odd sensation slipped
away while he groped for the watch that he always put on the chair next to the bed, then he yawned
again as he blinked at the hands mistily seen behind the scratched crystal. Seven... seven o'clock in
the morning, and there was a little number 9 in the middle of the square window. Monday, the ninth
of August, 1999—and hot as a furnace already, with the city still imbedded in the heat wave that had
baked and suffocated New York for the past ten days. Andy scratched at a trickle of perspiration on
his side, then moved his legs out of the patch of sunlight and bunched the pillow up under his neck.
From the other side of the thin partition that divided the room in half there came a clanking whir that
quickly rose to a high-pitched drone.
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Make Room! Make Room! by Harry Harrison
"Morning..." he shouted over the sound, then began coughing. Still coughing he reluctantly stood and
crossed the room to draw a glass of water from the wall tank; it came out in a thin, brownish trickle.
He swallowed it, then rapped the dial on the tank with his knuckles and the needle bobbed up and
down close to the Empty mark. It needed filling, he would have to see to that before he signed in at
four o'clock at the precinct. The day had begun.
A full-length mirror with a crack running down it was fixed to the front of the hulking wardrobe and
he poked his face close to it, rubbing at his bristly jaw. He would have to shave before he went in. No
one should ever look at himself in the morning, naked and revealed, he decided with distaste,
frowning at the dead white of his skin and the slight bow to his legs that was usually concealed by his
pants. And how did he manage to have ribs that stuck out like those of a starved horse, as well as a
growing potbelly—both at the same time? He kneaded the soft flesh and thought that it must be the
starchy diet, that and sitting around on his chunk most of the time. But at least the fat wasn't showing
on his face. His forehead was a little higher each year, but wasn't too obvious as long as his hair was
cropped short. You have just turned thirty, he thought to himself, and the wrinkles are already
starting around your eyes. And your nose is too big—wasn't it Uncle Brian who always said that was
because there was Welsh blood in the family? And your canine teeth are a little too obvious so when
you smile you look a bit like a hyena. You're a handsome devil, Andy Rusch, and when was the last
time you had a date? He scowled at himself, then went to look for a handkerchief to blow his
impressive Welsh nose.
There was just a single pair of clean undershorts in the drawer and he pulled them on; that was
another thing he had to remember today, to get some washing done. The squealing whine was still
coming from the other side of the partition as he pushed through the connecting door.
"You're going to give yourself a coronary, Sol," he told the gray-bearded man who was perched on
the wheelless bicycle, pedaling so industriously that perspiration ran down his chest and soaked into
the bath towel that he wore tied around his waist.
"Never a coronary," Solomon Kahn gasped out, pumping steadily. "I been doing this every day for so
long that my ticker would miss it if I stopped. And no cholesterol in my arteries either since regular
flushing with alcohol takes care of that. And no lung cancer since I couldn't afford to smoke even if I
wanted to, which I don't. And at the age of seventy-five no prostatitis because..."
"Sol, please—spare me the horrible details on an empty stomach. Do you have an ice cube to spare?"
"Take two—it's a hot day. And don't leave the door open too long."
Andy opened the small refrigerator that squatted against the wall and quickly took out the plastic
container of margarine, then squeezed two ice cubes from the tray into a glass and slammed the door.
He filled the glass with water from the wall tank and put it on the table next to the margarine. "Have
you eaten yet?" he asked.
"I'll join you, these things should be charged by now."
Sol stopped pedaling and the whine died away to a moan, then vanished. He disconnected the wires
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Make Room! Make Room! by Harry Harrison
from the electrical generator that was geared to the rear axle of the bike, and carefully coiled them up
next to the four black automobile storage batteries that were racked on top of the refrigerator. Then,
after wiping his hands on his soiled towel sarong, he pulled out one of the bucket seats salvaged from
an ancient 1975 Ford, and sat down across the table from Andy.
"I heard the six o'clock news," he said. "The Eldsters are organizing another protest march today on
relief headquarters. That's where you'll see coronaries!"
"I won't, thank God, I'm not on until four and Union Square isn't in our precinct." He opened the
breadbox and took out one of the six-inch-square red crackers, then pushed the box over to Sol. He
spread margarine thinly on it and took a bite, wrinkling his nose as he chewed. "I think this margarine
has turned."
"How can you tell?" Sol grunted, biting into one of the dry crackers. "Anything made from motor oil
and whale blubber is turned to begin with."
"Now you begin to sound like a naturist," Andy said, washing his cracker down with cold water.
"There's hardly any flavor at all to the fats made from petrochemicals and you know there aren't any
whales left so they can't use blubber—it's just good chlorella oil."
"Whales, plankton, herring oil, it's all the same. Tastes fishy. I'll take mine dry so I don't grow no
fins." There was a sudden staccato rapping on the door and he groaned. "Not yet eight o'clock and
already they are after you."
"It could be anything," Andy said, starting for the door.
"It could be but it's not, that's the callboy's knock and you know it as well as I do and I bet you dollars
to doughnuts that's just who it is. See?" He nodded with gloomy satisfaction when Andy unlocked the
door and they saw the skinny, bare-legged messenger standing in the dark hall.
"What do you want, Woody?" Andy asked.
"I don' wan' no-fin," Woody lisped over his bare gums. Though he was in his early twenties he didn't
have a tooth in his head. "Lieutenan' says bring, I bring." He handed Andy the message board with
his name written on the outside.
Andy turned toward the light and opened it, reading the lieutenant's spiky scrawl on the slate, then
took the chalk and scribbled his initials after it and returned it to the messenger. He closed the door
behind him and went back to finish his breakfast, frowning in thought.
"Don't look at me that way," Sol said, "I didn't send the message. Am I wrong in guessing it's not the
most pleasant of news?"
"It's the Eldsters, they're jamming the Square already and the precinct needs reinforcements."
"But why you? This sounds like a job for the harness bulls."
"Harness bulls! Where do you get that medieval slang? Of course they need patrolmen for the crowd,
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Make Room! Make Room! by Harry Harrison
but there have to be detectives there to spot known agitators, pickpockets, purse-grabbers and the
rest. It'll be murder in that park today. I have to check in by nine, so I have enough time to bring up
some water first"
Andy dressed slowly in slacks and a loose sport shirt, then put a pan of water on the windowsill to
warm in the sun. He took the two five-gallon plastic jerry cans, and when he went out Sol looked up
from the TV set, glancing over the top of his old-fashioned glasses.
"When you bring back the water I'll fix you a drink—or do you think it is too early?"
"Not the way I feel today, it's not."
The hall was ink black once the door had closed behind him and he felt his way carefully along the
wall to the stairs, cursing and almost falling when he stumbled over a heap of refuse someone had
thrown there. Two flights down a window had been knocked through the wall and enough light came
in to show him the way down the last two flights to the street. After the damp hallway the heat of
Twenty-fifth Street hit him in a musty wave, a stifling miasma compounded of decay, dirt and
unwashed humanity. He had to make his way through the women who already filled the steps of the
building, walking carefully so that he didn't step on the children who were playing below. The
sidewalk was still in shadow but so jammed with people that he walked in the street, well away from
the curb to avoid the rubbish and litter banked high there. Days of heat had softened the tar so that it
gave underfoot, then clutched at the soles of his shoes. There was the usual line leading to the
columnar red water point on the corner of Seventh Avenue, but it broke up with angry shouts and
some waved fists just as he reached it. Still muttering, the crowd dispersed and Andy saw that the
duty patrolman was locking the steel door.
"What's going on?" Andy asked. "I thought this point was open until noon?"
The policeman turned, his hand automatically staying close to his gun until he recognized the
detective from his own precinct. He tilted back his uniform cap and wiped the sweat from his
forehead with the back of his hand.
"Just had the orders from the sergeant, all points closed for twenty-four hours. The reservoir level is
low because of the drought, they gotta save water."
"That's a hell of a note," Andy said, looking at the key still in the lock. "I'm going on duty now and
this means I'm not going to be drinking for a couple of days...."
After a careful look around, the policeman unlocked the door and took one of the jerry cans from
Andy. "One of these ought to hold you." He held it under the faucet while it filled, then lowered his
voice. "Don't let it out, but the word is that there was another dynamiting job on the aqueduct
upstate."
"Those farmers again?"
"It must be. I was on guard duty up there before I came to this precinct and it's rough, they just as
soon blow you up with the aqueduct at the same time. Claim the city's stealing their water."
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Make Room! Make Room! by Harry Harrison
"They've got enough," Andy said, taking the full container. "More than they need. And there are
thirty-five million people here in the city who get damn thirsty."
"Who's arguing?" the cop asked, slamming the door shut again and locking it tight.
Andy pushed his way back through the crowd around the steps and went through to the backyard
first. All of the toilets were in use and he had to wait, and when he finally got into one of the cubicles
he took the jerry cans with him; one of the kids playing in the pile of rubbish against the fence would
be sure to steal them if he left them unguarded.
When he had climbed the dark flights once more and opened the door to the room he heard the clear
sound of ice cubes rattling against glass.
"That's Beethoven's Fifth Symphony that you're playing," he said, dropping the containers and falling
into a chair.
"It's my favorite tune," Sol said, taking two chilled glasses from the refrigerator and, with the
solemnity of a religious ritual, dropped a tiny pearl onion into each. He passed one to Andy, who
sipped carefully at the chilled liquid.
"It's when I taste one of these, Sol, that I almost believe you're not crazy after all. Why do they call
them Gibsons?"
"A secret lost behind the mists of time. Why is a Stinger a Stinger or a Pink Lady a Pink Lady?"
"I don't know—why? I never tasted any of them."
"I don't know either, but that's the name. Like those green things they serve in the knockjoints,
Panamas. Doesn't mean anything, just a name."
"Thanks," Andy said, draining his glass. "The day looks better already."
He went into his room and took his gun and holster from the drawer and clipped it inside the
waistband of his pants. His shield was on his key ring where he always kept it and he slipped his
notepad in on top of it, then hesitated a moment. It was going to be a long and rough day and
anything might happen. He dug his nippers out from under his shirts, then the soft plastic tube filled
with shot. It might be needed in the crowd, safer than a gun with all those old people milling about.
Not only that, but with the new austerity regulations you had to have a damn good reason for using
up any ammunition. He washed as well as he could with the pint of water that had been warming in
the sun on the window sill, then scrubbed his face with the small shard of gray and gritty soap until
his whiskers softened a bit. His razor blade was beginning to show obvious nicks along both edges
and, as he honed it against the inside of his drinking glass, he thought that it was time to think about
getting a new one. Maybe in the fall.
Sol was watering his window box when Andy came out, carefully irrigating the rows of herbs and
tiny onions. "Don't take any wooden nickels," he said without looking up from his work. Sol had a
million of them, all old. What in the world was a wooden nickel?
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摘要：

MakeRoom!MakeRoom!byHarryHarrisonHarryHarrisonMAKEROOM!MAKEROOM!basisforthemovie"SoylentGreen"ToTODDandMOIRAForyoursakes,children,Ihopethisprovestobeaworkoffiction.TABLEOFCONTENTSIntroductionProloguePart1Chapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapte...

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