After a great deal of searching, Barrent found a small work entitled, “The Post-War Dilemma, Volume 1,” by Arthur Whittier. It began where the other histories had left off; with the atomic bombs exploding over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Barrent sat down and began to read carefully.
He learned about the Cold War of the 1950’s, when several nations were in possession of atomic and hydrogen weapons. Already, the author stated, the seeds of a massive and stultifying conformity were present in the nations of the world. In America, there was the frenzied resistance to Communism. In Russia and China, there was the frenzied resistance to Capitalism. One by one, all the nations of the world were drawn into one camp or the other. For purposes of internal security, all countries relied upon the newest propaganda and indoctrination techniques. All countries felt they needed, for survival’s sake, a rigid adherence to state-approved doctrines.
The pressure upon the individuals to conform became both stronger and subtler.
The dangers of war passed. The many societies of Earth began to merge into a single super-state. But the pressure to conform, instead of lessening, grew more intense. The need was dictated by the continued explosive increase in population, and the many problems of unification across national and ethnic lines. Differences in opinion could be deadly; too many groups now had access to the supremely deadly hydrogen bombs.
Under the circumstances, deviant behavior could not be tolerated.
Unification was finally completed. The conquest of space went on, from moon ship to planet ship to star ship. But Earth became increasingly rigid in its institutions. A civilization more inflexible than anything produced by medieval Europe punished any opposition to existing customs, habits, beliefs. These breaches of the social contract were considered major crimes as serious as murder or arson. They were punished similarly. The antique institutions of secret police, political police, informers, all were used. Every possible device was brought to bear toward the all-important goal of conformity.
For the non-conformists, there was Omega.
Capital punishment had been banished long ago; but there was neither room nor recourses to take the growing number of criminals who crammed every prison and guardroom. The world leaders finally decided to transport these criminals to a separate prison world, copying a system which the French had used in Guiana and New Caledonia, and the British had used in Australia and America. Since it was impossible to rule this planet from Earth, the authorities didn’t try. They just made sure that none of the prisoners escaped.
That was the end of volume one of Arthur Whittier’s book. A note at the end said that volume two was a study of the Earth of today. It was entitled, “The Status Civilization.”
The second volume was not on the shelves. Barrent asked the librarian about it. He was told that it had been destroyed in the interests of public safety.
Barrent left the library and went to a little park. He sat and stared at the ground and tried to think.
He had expected to find an Earth similar to the one described in Whittier’s book. He had been prepared for a police state, tight security controls, a repressed populace, and a growing air of unrest. But that, apparently, was the past. So far, he hadn’t even seen a policeman. He had observed no security controls, and the people he had met did not seem harshly repressed.
Quite the contrary. This surely seemed like a completely different world . . .
Except that year after year, the prison ships came to Omega with their cargoes of brainwashed prisoners. Who arrested them? Who judged them? Who guarded them? What sort of a society produced them?
He would have to find out the answers himself, by direct exploration of the status civilization.
CHAPTER 27
EARLY the next morning, Barrent began his exploration. His technique was simple. He rang doorbells and asked people questions. He warned all his subjects that his real questions might be interspersed with trick or nonsense questions, whose purpose was to test the general awareness level. In that way, Barrent found he could ask anything at all about Earth, could explore controversial or even non-existent areas, and do so without revealing his own ignorance.
There was still the danger that some official would ask for his credentials, or that the police would mysteriously spring up when least expected. But he had to take those risks. Starting at the beginning of Orange Avenue, Barrent worked his way northward, calling at each house as he went. His results were uneven, as a selective sampling of his work shows:
(Mrs. A.L. Gotthreid, age 55, occupation housewife. A strong, erect, homely woman, imperious but polite, with a no-nonsense air about her.)
“You want to ask me about class and status? Is that it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You Opinioners are always asking about class and status. One would think you would know all about it by now. But very well. Today, since everyone is equal, there is only one class. The middle class. The only question remaining is, to what portion of the middle class does one belong? High, low, or middle?”
“Yes ma’am. And how is that determined?”
“Why, by all sorts of little things, like the way a person speaks, eats, dresses, the way he acts in public. His manners. His clothing. You can always tell an upper middle class man by his clothes. It’s quite unmistakable.”
“I see. And the lower middle classes?”
“Well, for one thing they are marked by a lack of creative energy. A kind of dullness. They wear ready-made clothing, for example, without taking the trouble to improve it. The same goes for their homes. We all start with the same houses, but a middle or upper middle class person makes creative changes in decor. And mere uninspired adornment won’t do, let me add. That is simply the mark of the nouveau upper middle class. We do not receive such persons in our homes.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gotthreid. And where would you classify yourself statuswise?”
(With the very faintest hesitation). “Oh, in the upper middle, I suppose.”
(Mr. John Bruce Dreister, age 43, occupation shoe clerk. A slender, mild man, young-looking for his years).
“Yes sir. Myra and I have three children of school age. All boys.”
“Could you give me some idea what their education consists of?”
“Sure. They learn how to read and write, and how to become good citizens. They’re already starting to learn their trades. The oldest is going into the family business—shoes. The other two are taking apprenticeship courses in groceries and retail marketing. That’s my wife’s family’s business. They also learn how to retain status, and how to utilize standard techniques for moving upward. That’s about what goes on in the open classes.”
“Are there other classes which are not open?”
“Well, naturally there are the closed classes. Every child attends them.”
“And what do they learn in the closed classes?”
“I don’t know. They’re closed, like I said.”
“Don’t the children ever speak about those classes?”
“Nope. They talk about everything under the sun, but not about that.”
“Haven’t you any idea what goes on in the closed classes?”
“Sorry, I don’t. At a guess—and it’s only a guess, mind you—I’d say it’s probably something religious. But you’d have to ask a teacher for that.”
“Thank you, sir. And how do you classify yourself status-wise?”
“Middle middle class, Not much doubt about that.”
(Miss Mary Jane Morgan, age 51, occupation schoolteacher. A tall, bony, horsefaced woman).
“Yes sir, I think that just about sums up our curriculum at the Little Beige Schoolhouse.”
“Except for the closed classes.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“The closed classes. You haven’t discussed those.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Why not, Miss Morgan?”
“Is that a trick question? Everyone knows that teachers aren’t
allowed in the closed classes.”
“Who is allowed in?”
“The children, of course.”
“But who teaches them?”
“The government is in charge of that.”
“Of course. But who, specifically, does the teaching in the closed classes?”
“I have no idea, sir. It’s none of my business. The closed classes are an ancient and respected institution. What goes on in them is quite possibly of a religious nature. But that’s only a guess. Whatever it is, it’s none of my business. Nor is it yours, young man, Opinioner or not.”
“Thank you, Miss Morgan.”
(Colonel Edgar Nief, age 107, occupation retired. A tall, stooped old man who walked with the aid of a cane, and whose icy blue eyes were undimmed by age).
“A little louder, please. What was that question again?”
“About the armed forces. Specifically I asked—”
“I remember now. Yes, young man, I was a colonel in the Twenty-first North American Spaceborn Commando, which was a regular unit of the Earth Defense Corps.”
“And did you retire from the service?”
“No, the service retired from me.
“I beg pardon, sir?”
“You heard me correctly, young man. It happened just sixty-three years ago. The Earth Armed Forces were demobilized, except for the police whom I cannot count. But all regular units were demobilized.”
“Why was that done, sir?”
“There wasn’t anyone to fight. Wasn’t even anyone to guard against, or so I was told. Damned foolish business, I say.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because an old soldier knows that you can never tell when an enemy might spring up. It could happen now. And then where would we be?”
“Couldn’t the armies be formed again?”
“Certainly. But the present generation has no concept of serving under arms. There are no leaders left, outside of a few useless old fools like me. It would take years for an effective force, effectively led, to be formed.”
“And in the meantime, Earth is completely open to invasion from the outside?”
“Yes, except for the police units. And I seriously doubt their reliability under fire.”
“Could you tell me about the police?”
“There is nothing I know about them. I have never bothered my head about non-military matters.”
“But it is conceivable that the police have now taken over the functions of the army, isn’t it?
that the police constitute a sizeable and disciplined para-military force?”
“It is possible, sir. Anything is possible.”
(Mr. Moerton JF Honners, age 31, occupation writer. A slim, languid man with an earnest, boyish face and smooth, corn-blond hair).
“You are a writer, Mr. Honners?”
“I am, sir. Though perhaps ‘author’ would be a better word, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Mr. Honners, are you presently engaged in writing for any of the magazines I see on the newsstands?”
“Certainly not! Those are written by incompetent hacks for the dubious delectation of the lower middle class. The stories in those magazines, in case you didn’t know, are taken line by line from the works of various popular writers of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The people who do the work merely substitute adjectives and adverbs in those stories. Occasionally, I’m told, a more daring hack will substitute a verb, or even a noun. But that is rare. The editors of such magazines frown upon sweeping innovations.”
“And you are not engaged in such work?”
“Absolutely not! My work is non-commercial. I am a Creative Conrad Specialist.”
“Would you mind telling me what that means, Mr. Honners?”
“I’d be happy to. My own particular field of endeavor lies in re-creating the works of Joseph Conrad, an author who lived in the pre-atomic era.”
“How do you go about re-creating those works, sir?”
“Well, at present I am engaged in my fifth re-creation of Lord Jim. To do it, I steep myself as thoroughly as possible in the original work. Then I set about re-writing it as Conrad would have written it if he had lived today. It is a labor which calls for extreme diligence, and for the utmost in artistic integrity. A single slip could mar the re-creation. As you can see, it calls for a preliminary mastery of Conrad’s vocabulary, themes, plots, characters, mood, approach, and so on. All this goes in, and yet the book cannot be a slavish repeat. It must have something new to say, just as Conrad would have said it. Quite a task, I must admit.”
“And have you succeeded?”
“The critics have been generous, and my publisher gives me every encouragement.”
“When you have finished your fifth re-creation of Lord Jim, what do you plan to do?”
“First I shall take a long rest. Then I shall re-create one of Conrad’s minor works. The Planter of Malata, perhaps.”
“I see. Is re-creation the rule in all the arts?”
“It is the goal of the true aspiring artist, no matter what medium he has chosen to work in. Art is a cruel mistress, I fear.”
(Mr. Willis Ouerka, age 8, occupation student. A cheerful, black-haired, suntanned boy).
“I’m sorry, Mr. Opinioner, my parents aren’t home right now.”
“That’s perfectly all right, Willis. Do you mind if I ask you a question or two?”
“I don’t mind. What’s that you got under your jacket, Mister? It bulges.”
“I’ll ask the questions, Willis, if you don’t mind . . . Now do you like school?”
“It’s all right.”
“What courses do you take?”
“Well, there’s reading and writing and status appreciation, and courses in art, music, architecture, literature, ballet and theater. The usual stuff.”
“I see, That’s in the open classes?”
“Sure.”
“Do you also attend a closed class?”
“Sure I do. Every day.”
“Do you mind talking about it?”
“I don’t mind. Is that bulge a gun? I know what guns are.
Some of the big boys were passing around pictures at lunchtime a couple days ago and I peeked. Is it a gun?”
“No. My suit doesn’t fit very well, that’s all. Now then. Would you mind telling me what you do in the closed class?”
“I don’t mind.”
“What happens, then?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Come now, Willis.”
“Really, Mr. Opinioner. We all go into this classroom, and we come out two hours later for recess. But that’s all. I can’t remember anything else. I’ve talked with the other kids. They can’t remember either.”
“Strange . . .”
“No sir. If we were supposed to remember, it wouldn’t be closed.
“Perhaps so. Do you remember what the room looks like, or who your teacher is for the closed class?”
“No sir. I really don’t remember anything at all about it.”
“Thank you, Willis.”
(Mr. Richard Cuchulain Dent, age 37, occupation inventor. A plump, prematurely bald man with ironic, heavy-lidded eyes).
“Yep, that’s right, I’m an inventor specializing in games. I brought out Triangulate—Or Else! last year. It’s been pretty popular. Have you seen it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Sort of a cute game. It’s a simulated lost-in-space deal. The players are given incomplete data for their miniature computers, additional information as they win it. Space hazards for penalties. Lots of flashing lights and stuff like that. Very big seller.”
“Do you invent anything else, Mr. Dent?”
“When I was a kid, I worked up an improved seeder-harvester. Designed to be approximately three times as efficient as the present models. And would you believe it, I really thought I had a chance of selling it.”
“Did you sell it?”
“Of course not. At that time I
didn’t realize that the patent office was closed permanently except for the games section.”
“Were you angry about that?”
“A little angry at the time. But I realized pretty fast that the models we have are plenty good enough. There’s no need for more efficient or more ingenious inventions. Folks today are satisfied with what they’ve got. Besides, new inventions would be of no service to mankind. Earth’s birth and deathrate are stable, and there’s enough for everyone. To produce a new invention, you’d have to re-tool an entire factory. That would be almost impossible, since all the factories today are automatic and selfrepairing. That’s why there’s a moratorium on invention, except in the novelty game field.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“What’s there to feel? That’s how things are.”
“Would you like to have things different?”
“Maybe. But being an inventor, I’m classified as a potentially unstable character anyhow.”
(Mr. Barney Threnten, age At, occupation atomics engineer specializing in spaceship design. A sallow, nervous, intelligent-looking man with sad brown eyes).
“You want to know what I do in my job? I’m sorry you asked that, Mister, because I don’t do a damned thing except walk around the damned factory. Union rules require one standby human for every robot or robotized operation. That’s what I do. I just stand by.”
“You sound dissatisfied, Mr. Threnten.”
“I am. I wanted to be an atomics engineer. I trained for it. Then when I graduated, I found out my knowledge was fifty years out of date. Even if I learned what was going on now, I’d have no place to use it.”
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