“Why not?”
“Because everything in atomics is automatized. I don’t know if the majority of the population knows that, but it’s true. From raw material to finished product, it’s all completely automatic. The only human participation in the program is quantity-control in terms of population indices. And even that is minimal.”
“What happens if a part of an automatic factory breaks down?”
“It gets fixed by robot repair units.”
“And if they break down?”
“The damned things are selfrepairing. All I can do is stand by and watch, and fill out a report. Which is a helluva position for a man who considers himself an engineer.”
“Why don’t you turn to some other field?”
“No use. I’ve checked, and the rest of the engineers are in the same spot I’m in, watching automatic processes which they don’t understand. Name your field: food processing, automobile manufacture, construction, bio-chem, it’s all the same. Either standby engineers or no engineers at all.”
“This is true for spaceflight also?”
“Sure. No member of the spacepilot’s union has been off Earth for close to fifty years. They wouldn’t know how to operate a ship.”
“I see. All the ships are set for automatic.”
“Exactly. Permanently and irrevocably automatic.”
“What would happen if these ships ran into an unprecedented situation?”
“That’s hard to say. The ships can’t think, you know; they simply follow pre-set programs. If the ships ran into a situation for which they were not programmed, they’d be paralyzed, at least temporarily. I think they all have an optimum-choice selector which is supposed to take over in unstructured situations; but it’s never been tried out. At best, it would react sluggishly. At worst, it wouldn’t work at all. And that would be fine by me.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“I certainly do. I’m sick of standing around watching a machine do the same thing day after day. Most of the professional men I know feel the same way. We want to do something. Anything. Did you know that a hundred years ago human-piloted spaceships were exploring the planets of other star-systems?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s what we should be doing now. Moving outward, exploring, advancing. That’s what we need.”
“I agree. But don’t you think you’re saying rather dangerous things?”
“I know I am. But frankly, I just don’t care any longer. Let them ship me to Omega if they want to. I’m doing no good here.”
“Then you’ve heard about Omega?”
“Anyone that’s connected with spaceships knows about Omega. Round trips between Omega and Earth, that’s all our spaceships do. It’s a helluva world. Personally, I put the blame on the clergy.”
“The clergy?”
“Absolutely. Those sanctimonious fools with their endless drivel about the Church of the Spirit of Mankind Incarnate. It’s enough to make a man wish for a little evil . . .”
(Father Boeren, age 51, occupation clergyman. A stately, plum-shaped man wearing a saffron robe and white sandals.)
“That’s right, my son, I am the abbot of the local branch of the Church of the Spirit of Mankind Incarnate. Our church is the official and exclusive religious expression of the government of Earth. Our religion speaks for all the peoples of Earth. It is a composite of the best elements of all the former religions, both major and minor, skillfully blended into a single all-embracing faith.”
“Abbot, aren’t there bound to be contradictions in doctrine among the various religions which make up your faith?”
“There were. But the forgers of our present Church threw out all controversial matter. We wanted agreement, not dissension. We preserve only certain colorful facets of those early great religions; facets with which people can identify. There have never been any schisms in our religion, because we are all-acceptant. One may believe anything one wishes, as long as it preserves the holy spirit of Mankind Incarnate. For our worship, you see, is the true worship of Man. And the spirit we recognize is the spirit of the divine and holy Good.”
“Would you define Good for me, Abbot Boeren?”
“Certainly. Good is that force within us which inspires men to acts of conformity and subservience. The worship of Good is essentially the worship of oneself, and therefore the only true worship. The self which one worships is the ideal social being: the man content in his niche in society, yet ready to creatively advance his status. Good is gentle, since it is a true reflection of the loving and pitying universe. Good is continually changing in its aspects, although it comes to us in the . . . You have a strange look on your face, young man.”
“I’m sorry, Abbot. I believe I heard that sermon, or one very much like it.”
“It is true wherever one hears it.”
“Of course. One more question, sir. Could you tell me about the religious instruction of children?”
“That duty is performed for us by the robot-confessors.”
“Yes?”
“The notion came to us from the ancient root-faith of Transcendental Freudianism. The robot-confessor instructs children and adults alike. It hears their problems within the social matrix. It is their constant friend, their social mentor, their religious instructor. Being robotic, the confessors are able to give exact and unvarying answers to any question. This aids the great work of Conformity.”
“I can see that it does. What do the human priests do, Abbot?”
“They watch over the robot-confessors.”
“Are these robot-confessors present in the closed classrooms?
“I am not competent to answer that.”
“They are, aren’t they?”
“I truly do not know. The closed classrooms are closed to abbots as well as to other adults.”
“By whose order?”
“By order of the Chief of the Secret Police.”
“I see . . . Thank you, Abbot Boeren.”
(Mr. Enyen Dravivian, age 43, occupation government employee. A narrow-faced, beaknosed, slit-eyed man who looked old and tired beyond his years).
“Good afternoon, sir. You say that you are employed by the government?”
“Correct.”
“Is that the state or the federal government?”
“Both.”
“I see. And have you been in this employ for very long?”
“Approximately eighteen or nineteen years.”
“Yes sir. Would you mind telling me what, specifically, your job is?”
“Not at all. I am the chief of the Secret Police.”
“You are—I see, sir. That’s very interesting. I—”
“Don’t reach for the needlebeam, Mr. Barrent. I can assure you, it won’t operate in the blanketed area around this house. And if you draw it, you’re liable to be hurt.”
“How?”
“I have my own means of protection, Mr. Barrent.”
“How did you know my name?”
“I’ve known about you almost since you set foot upon Earth. We are not entirely without recourses, you know. But we can discuss all that inside. Won’t you come in?”
“I think I’d rather not. If you don’t mind.”
“I’m afraid you have to.
Come, Mr. Barrent, I won’t bite you.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Of course not. We’re simply going to have a little talk. That’s right, sir, right through there. Just make yourself comfortable.”
CHAPTER 28
DRAVIVIAN led him into a large room panelled in walnut. The furniture was of a heavy, black wood, intricately carved and varnished. The desk, high and straight, seemed to be an antique. A heavy tapestry covered one entire wall. It depicted, in fading colors, a medieval hunting scene.
“Do you like it?” Dravivian asked. “My family did the furnishing. My wife copied the tapestry from an original, in the Metropolitan Museum. My two sons collaborated on the furniture. The
y wanted something ancient and Spanish in feeling, but with more comfort than antiques usually give. A slight modification of the lines accomplished that. My own contributions are not visible. Music of the baroque period is my specialty.”
“Aside from police work,” Barrent said.
“Yes, aside from that.” Dravivian turned away from Barrent and looked thoughtfully at the tapestry. “We will come to the matter of the police in due course. Tell me first, what do you think of this room?”
“It’s very beautiful,” Barrent said.
“Yes. And?”
“Well—I’m no judge.”
“You must judge,” Dravivian said. “In this room you can see Earth’s civilization in miniature. Tell me what you think of it?”
“It feels lifeless,” Barrent said.
Dravivian turned to Barrent and smiled. “Yes, that’s a good word for it. Self-involved might perhaps be better. This is a high-status room, Mr. Barrent. A great deal of creativity has gone into the artistic improvement of ancient archetypes. My family has re-created a bit of the Spanish past, as others have re-created bits of the Mayan, Early American, or Oceanic past. And yet, the essential hollowness is obvious. Our automatized factories produce the same goods for us year in and year out. Since everyone has these same goods, it is necessary for us to change the factory product, to improve and embroider it, to express ourselves through it, to rank ourselves by it. That’s how Earth is, Mr. Barrent. Our energy and skills are channeled into essentially decadent pursuits. We re-carve old furniture, worry about rank and status, and in the meantime the frontier of the distant planets remains unexplored and unconquered. We ceased long ago to expand. Stability brought the danger of stagnation, to which we succumbed. We became so highly socialized that individuality had to be diverted to the most harmless of pursuits, turned inward, kept from any meaningful expression. I think you have seen a fair amount of that in your time on Earth, Mr. Barrent.”
“I have. But I never expected to hear the chief of the Secret Police say it.”
“I’m an unusual man,” Dravivian said, with a mocking smile. “And the secret police is an unusual institution.”
“It must be very efficient. How did you find out about me?”
“That was really quite simple. Most of the people of Earth are security-conditioned from childhood. It’s part of our heritage, you know. Nearly all the people you met were able to tell that there was something very wrong about you. You were as obviously out of place as a wolf among sheep. People noticed, and reported directly to me.”
“All right,” Barrent said. “Now what?”
“First I would like you to tell me about Omega.”
Barrent told the police chief about his life on the prison planet. Dravivian nodded, a faint smile on his lips.
“Yes, it’s very much as I expected,” he said. “The same sort of thing has happened on Omega as happened in early America and Australia. There are differences, of course; you have been shut off more completely from the mother country. But the same fierce energy and drive is there, and the same ruthlessness.”
“What are you going to do?” Barrent asked.
Dravivian shrugged his shoulders. “It really doesn’t matter. I suppose I could kill you. But that wouldn’t stop your group on Omega from sending out other spies, or from seizing one of the prison ships. As soon as the Omegans begin to move in force, they’ll discover the truth anyhow.”
“What truth?”
“By now it must be obvious to you,” Dravivian said. “Earth hasn’t fought a war for nearly two hundred years. We wouldn’t know how. The organization of guardships around Omega is pure facade. The ships are completely automatized, built to meet conditions of several hundred years ago. A determined attack will capture a ship; and when you have one, the rest will fall. After that, there’s nothing to stop the Omegans from coming back to Earth; and there’s nothing on Earth to fight them with. This, you must realize, is the reason why all prisoners leaving Earth are divorced from their memories. If they remembered, Earth’s vulnerability would be painfully apparent.”
“If you knew all this,” Barrent asked, “why didn’t you leaders do something about it?”
“That was our original intention. But there was no real drive behind the intention. We preferred not to think about it. We assumed the status quo would remain indefinitely. We didn’t want to think about the day when the Omegans returned to Earth.”
“What are you and your police going to do about it?” Barrent asked.
“I am a facade, too,” Dravivian told him. “I have no police. The position of chief is entirely honorary. There has been no need of a police force on Earth for close to a century. We have no protective force.”
“You’re going to need one when the Omegans come home,” Barrent said.
“Yes. There’s going to be crime again, and serious trouble. But I think the final amalgamation will be successful. You on Omega have the drive, the ambition to reach the stars. I believe you need a certain stability and creativeness which Earth can provide. Whatever the results, the union is inevitable. We’ve lived in a dream here for too long. It’s going to take violent measures to awaken us.”
Dravivian rose to his feet. “And now,” he said, “since the fate of Earth and Omega seem to be decided, could I offer you some refreshment?”
CHAPTER 29
WITH the help of the chief of police, Barrent put a message aboard the next ship to leave for Omega. The message told about conditions on Earth and urged immediate action. When that was finished, Barrent was ready for his final job—to find the judge who had sentenced him for a crime he hadn’t committed, and the lying informer who had turned him in to the judge. When he found these two, Barrent knew he would regain the missing portions of his memory.
He took the night expressway to Youngerstun. By early morning he was there. Superficially, the neat rows of houses looked the same as in any other town. But for Barrent they were different, and achingly familiar. H. remembered this town, and the monotonous houses had individuality and meaning for him. He had been born and raised in this town.
There was Mrs. Grothmeir’s store, and across the street was the home of Mr. Havening, the local interior decorating champion. Here was Billy Havelock’s house. Billy had been his best friend. They had planned on being spacepilots together, and had remained good friends after school—until Barrent had been sentenced to Omega.
Here was Andrew Therkaler’s house. And down the block was the school he had attended. He could remember the classes now, the lessons in status appreciation and applied creativity. He could remember how, every day, they had gone through the door that led to the closed class. But he still could not remember what he had learned there. It was a complete blank.
Right here, near two huge elms, the murder had taken place. Barrent walked to the spot and remembered how it had happened. He had been on his way home. From somewhere down the street he had heard a scream. He had turned, and a man—Illiardi—had run down the street and thrown something at him. Barrent had caught it instinctively, and found himself holding an illegal handgun. A few steps further, he had looked into the twisted dead face of Andrew Therkaler.
And what had happened next? Confusion. Panic. A sensation of someone watching as he stood, gun in hand, over the corpse. There, at the end of the street, was the refuge to which he had gone.
He walked up to it, and recognized it as a robot-confessional booth.
Barrent entered the booth. It was small, and there was a faint odor of incense in the air. The room contained a single chair. Facing it was a complex, brilliantly lighted panel.
“Good morning, Will,” the panel said to him.
Barrent had a sudden sense of helplessness when he heard that soft mechanical voice. He remembered it now. That passionless voice knew all, understood all and forgave nothing. That artfully manufactured voice had spoken to him, had listened, and then had judged. In his dream, he had personified the robot-confessor into the figure of
a human judge.
“You remember me?” Barrent asked.
“Of course,” said the robot-confessor. “You were one of my parishoners before you went to Omega.”
“You sent me there.”
“For the crime of murder.”
“But I didn’t commit the crime!” Barrent said. “I didn’t do it, and you must have known it.”
“Of course I knew it,” the robot-confessor said. “But my powers and duties are strictly defined. I sentence according to evidence, not intuition. By law, the robot-confessors must weigh only the concrete evidence which is put before them. They must, when in doubt, sentence. In fact, the mere presence of a man before me charged with murder must be taken as a strong presumption of his guilt.”
“Was there evidence against me?”
“Yes.”
“Who gave it?”
“I cannot reveal his name.”
“You must!” Barrent said. “Times are changing on Earth. The prisoners are coming back. Did you know that?”
“I expected it,” the robot-confessor said.
“I must have the informer’s name,” Barrent said. He took the needlebeam out of his pocket and advanced toward the panel.
“A machine cannot be coerced,” the robot-confessor told him.
“Give me the name!” Barrent shouted.
“I should not, for your own good. The danger would be too great. Believe me, Will . . .”
“The name!”
“Very well. You will find the informer at Thirty-five Maple Street. But I earnestly advise you not to go there. You will be killed. You simply do not know—”
Barrent raised his gun and pressed the trigger, and the narrow beam scythed through the panel. Lights flashed and faded as he cut through the intricate wiring. At last all the lights were dead, and a faint gray smoke came from the panel.
Barrent left the booth. He put the needlebeam back in his pocket and walked to Maple Street.
He had been here before. He knew this street, set upon a hill, rising steeply between oak and maple trees. Those lampposts were old friends, that crack in the pavement was an ancient landmark. Here were the houses, heavy with familiarity. They seemed to lean expectantly toward him, like spectators waiting for the final act of an almost forgotten drama.
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