The Worlds of George O

by George O. Smith

  For example, the word "dwelling" was still used; but it did not define a single-family structure situated on a plot of vacant ground. In even the least crowded areas of the megalopolis that stretched from Boston to Washington, the dwellings were low structures, seldom more than three stories high. They were constructed with an economy of building materials by the clever process of using a single wall between the adjoining structures instead of the wastefulness of erecting separate walls for each building.

  In the more densely populated areas, the tight cores of the original cities, dwellings were veritable cliffs. The walls of the apartment buildings rose sheer from the edge of the sidewalk, and each rectangular city block carried its own. Above the city, there was a thin, noisy population of helicopters. And below, the only reason traffic moved at all through the streets was because only essential vehicles were permitted in the dense knots.

  Had the Sleeper of H. G. Wells awakened, he would have found at least two things missing from his story. First, moving sidewalks did not hurl pedestrian traffic along a series of belts running at different speeds. There were no moving sidewalks. Below the city, in the subways, there were moving cars that closed tight, bumper-to-bumper, as they crawled along the station platform, then stretched out into headlong flight to the next station. It was not a case of the quick or the dead, because he who lost his footing was merely thrust aside--or, if he fell, elbow, knee or anatomy was mildly abraded as he was moved to safety.

  Second, the clever little advertising gimmick of projecting names and slogans on the sidewalk couldn't be done... because the sidewalks were elbow-to-elbow, cheek-to-jowl, and nose-to-spine with those people who did not take to the subways.

  Within the individual dwelling units, things had not changed greatly, but enough to make a difference. Wooden furniture was still present, but mostly in the form of a solid core or foundation for fabrications with a simulated wood-grain surface. Natural fabrics were not plentiful, but the synthetics were so numerous that a story was told about using an alphanumeric computer to compose fetching names for them.

  One thing had hardly changed at all: the people.

  Oh, the faces and the figures of twenty-sixteen were not those of nineteen-sixty-odd, by a factor of seventy-six years. But three generations isn't enough to detect a trend in evolution.

  Boys, for example, still called on girls--especially when they had come to a turning point in their careers...

  So Lansing said, "I failed, Gloria."

  "But they kept you on as a rookie, didn't they?"

  Bill Lansing looked gloomy. "Sure, but that's sort of like handing out praise by writing it in Sanskrit and sealing it in the cornerstone of a granite building."

  "I still say you've got another chance."

  "Gloria, how often do they have fires these days?"

  "Why, I don't really know."

  "I've been a rookie for two years. I've been to one fire. Things simply do not go Whoosh! at the touch of a spark any more."

  "But doesn't that give you loads of time to study?"

  "Sure," he replied gloomily. "But study doesn't solve the problem. I've read the detailed account of every fire in the entire megalopolis for the past fifteen years. It's not enough. Nothing gives you firsthand knowledge like being on the actual scene of a fire, so you can watch them work, see how they go about it, and observe the results. So where does this leave me?"

  "Well, outside of being disappointed, Bill, just where do you think it leaves you?"

  "I know where it leaves me," he said. "I'm the son of a fire claim adjuster."

  "Is that so bad?"

  "Bad enough so that your father gave me a rough time until I made the rookie grade and was on my way toward being a real fireman. Now one false step and I'll be the son of a fire claim adjuster again. And believe me, Gloria, you know as well as I do that the only thing worse than being the son of a fire claim adjuster is to be the adjuster himself."

  "Oh, now, it isn't that bad."

  "Isn't it? Does your father know I'm here?"

  "He didn't say anything about not seeing you, if that's what you mean."

  "Gloria, if you want to find out the degree of my welcome as a failed-to-make-it candidate for the Academy of Fire Fighters, let's you and I go and announce that we're about to go dancing, or to a show, or something similar."

  "All right. Let's," said Gloria.

  * * * *

  III

  They found Gloria's father in the family recreation room watching a comedy show. Here at home there was nothing to set him off as a fireman except for the traditional red suspenders which were, like a uniform, the insignia of his position; the silver buckles indicated that he was an official of the Academy, and the four tiny shields embossed on the buckles denoted his rank as fire chief.

  He looked up and blinked as they entered hand in hand. A fleeting frown crossed his face, but it came and went so fast that no one, not even Bill Lansing, could be certain that the frown was not caused by the change in eye-focus from the bright viewing screen to the couple walking through the diminished light.

  Gloria said, "Bill and I are going dancing, Dad."

  "Dancing?"

  "Yes. The gang's throwing an impromptu at the Silver Garden."

  "Oh. The gang."

  "Yes."

  "All right. You sounded as though you intended to go alone."

  Bill Lansing bristled slightly. Gloria caught it first and squeezed his hand. He subsided without saying anything, and Gloria said gently, "Why, Dad, we're all big enough to be out alone. Even after dark."

  Fire Chief Mooney looked at them and nodded slowly. "That isn't exactly what I meant," he said. "Jim Potter said last night that he was getting an idea for his thesis that he was going to work out in model form. And he said that if he finished it, he'd be over to show it to us this evening. But if the gang is going to be at the Silver Garden, he will too. Tell him I'm quite interested in his model, Gloria. Jim has a real head on his shoulders. Like father, like son, I always say."

  "Yes," said Gloria simply.

  Gloria's father looked at Bill. "And how is your program, Bill? Got any new ideas?"

  "Nothing clear yet. I've a couple of ideas that need some study before they're even presentable as possible ideas."

  "Good. Come around any time you have something to offer."

  Outside, on the crowded sidewalk, they were part of the surrounded-alones that make up the population of any city. Had they stood on that same location fifty years earlier, they would have been truly alone, in the middle of a tract of land too rough for farming and not yet needed for dwelling space. Then they could have counted the dabs of sky-glow that marked the location of the larger towns hidden by the slightly rolling hills that someone had dubbed the Watchung Mountains of New Jersey.

  But they were not fifty years earlier. Two generations of dwelling construction had changed the face of the Earth. The first had cleared out the thin forestation and dotted the landscape with a polka-pattern of rubber-stamp houses built by the production-line process.

  The first crew dug for the foundation, the second crew poured it. A third removed the forms and installed them forward of the line, while the next crew began to put up stringers and studs. When they moved along, the sheathing came, the plumbers and the electricians installed their hardware, the flooring was laid, and the walls were plastered, and the roof was slapped on. A coat of paint went next, followed by the real estate salesmen and their clients.

  And while the foremost was still digging holes for more foundations, miles behind them the sheriff was serving foreclosure notices on those whose payments were delinquent.

  The second generation of building pushed the Watchung Mountains around until the terrain was level, and then erected row upon row of the two- and three-story dwellings, laid out in a closed formation of rectangles. This was the low-density population of the central megalopolis.

  * * * *

  Gloria and Bill were part of the surrounded-alones
. When the density of population forces a man to breathe his neighbor's exhalation, aloofness takes the place of privacy. It becomes a studied thing to not-observe; let some outrage take place, and the people who stop to stare are from a distant part of the city, while the folks next door pass by with the talent of a waiter who can walk through a crowded restaurant without letting anyone catch his eye or attention.

  And so Gloria and Bill could talk as if they were alone, and he said, "Well, that's about it, isn't it?"

  "Now what do you mean by that?"

  "There's no gang dance tonight. And that Potter creep isn't going--"

  "Now, don't you go calling Jim Potter a creep. He isn't."

  "I suppose he's a fine fellow with grace, charm, money, an interesting mind, sex appeal--and has the right to wear his father's red suspenders."

  "Don't be bitter, Bill."

  "What else can I be?" he demanded. "Jim has a real head on his shoulders. Like father, like son, I always say. Come around when

  you have something to offer."

  "Now. Bill!"

  "That isn't all, Gloria. He back-watered fast after that glum 'You sounded as if you were going out alone' line of his, but what is he going to say when his favorite, Jim Potter, turns up and declares there's no impromptu dance tonight? He's going to accuse the both of us of lying so that we could go out and canoodle somewhere."

  "Don't worry, Bill. There are ways of coping with that."

  "For example?"

  "By proving that I'm not playing favorites."

  "In other words, you're going out with Jim Potter."

  "Now you see here, Bill Lansing! I've got every right to go out with whom I choose.

  You have no more right to object to Jim Potter than he has a right to object to you, and neither of you has a right to object to anybody else. Now, that's not only clear, but it's also logical and sensible--"

  Bill put out a hand and caught her elbow, just as she was about to step off the curb to cross the street.

  The traffic light had flashed red, and the cross-traffic fought its way into the intersection without waiting for the last of the running traffic to clear. Bumper to bumper and curb to curb, everything came to a halt. Then came a crescendo of horns. The horns died as the intersection cleared. There was a flurry in the vehicular pattern as one driver tried to fight his way from the middle lane to make a turn; he didn't make it, but with luck, perseverance, and the unlikely possibility of meeting a polite driver who would give way, he might make his turn in the next couple of blocks.

  "Okay," said Bill, disconsolately replying to her argument. "But right now what do we do? There's no dance at the Silver Garden."

  "So we'll walk there, find that it isn't open, and then turn over on March Street and see if we can get tickets to

  Bitter Love." She hugged his arm. "It isn't a big event, but a girl can paste theater tickets in her diary, can't she?"

  "I guess."

  "So we were disappointed about being mistaken about the dance, but it worked out even better because we saw that big new hit."

  "If we can get tickets."

  "We'll get tickets," she promised. "They wouldn't dare refuse the daughter of Fire Chief Mooney."

  * * * *

  IV

  There was a murmur of voices when Bill opened the door with Gloria's key. Gloria said,

  "Maybe you'd best not come in, Bill. That father of mine--he's still up."

  "The other is Jim Potter. He's still here. Look," he said hoarsely. "I'm not going to leave with Jim Potter in the house waiting to get you alone!"

  The hallway door before them opened to display Fire Chief Mooney, with Jim Potter in the background. Gloria's father used the voice that he'd found helpful in making himself heard over the crackle of open flames, the shouts of hard-working firemen, and the roar of newly arriving fire equipment. "And how was the dance at the club that's closed? Find the floor crowded? So just what have you been doing, you two?"

  Gloria replied, "Now father, don't take that tone--"

  "I'll take any tone I want to in my own home! What have you two been up to?"

  "We got tickets to

  Bitter Love, playing at the Orpheum," said Bill, waving the ticket stubs.

  "Did you stay to watch the show, or are you using the tickets as an alibi?" demanded Gloria's father.

  "Now, sir, that's no way to talk. Don't you trust your daughter?"

  "Yes, I trust her, you young schemer. But I don't trust you not to make a fool of her."

  "But I--"

  "You, Lansing, might have spent your time better if you'd honestly tried to advance the science of fire fighting instead of thinking of clever schemes to marry into it. Hah! you yell about water, and how things haven't changed for two thousand years. Well, while you were carping about water and lack of progress, Jim Potter was thinking. His idea will get him

  appointed

  cum laude, possibly

  summa, and maybe even magna."

  "But, sir--"

  "Lansing, I think you are a thrill-seeker. While you were complaining about lack of progress, and wailing that you couldn't really study a fire and the methods we use without really watching one, Jim Potter did what you couldn't do. He has made a very sensible plan."

  "Congratulations," said Lansing in a flat tone. "And may I ask what it is?"

  "I'm proud to be the one to tell you," said Fire Chief Mooney. "Assume you are called to a fire in a dwelling, Lansing. It is yours to fight, to plan against, to lay out your campaign to extinguish the blaze in the shortest time with the minimum damage. Understand?"

  "That is the job of the fire boss, the ranking official present."

  "Pre-cisely! Now, Lansing, suppose that you could make an instantaneous determination of the amount and placement of all flammable material in the dwelling, the chemistry and physical characteristics of these burnables, and the possible interaction between the various products of combustion."

  "That would be a help," Lansing said thoughtfully. "It would be as great a help to us as it helps a general who knows the strength and deployment of the entire enemy force against him."

  "Exactly! Well, Lansing, young Jim Potter proposes that every citizen post a layout of his dwelling, and the contents, and the material of which the articles are made! This information will go into a rapid cross-access file, so that the full information will be available as soon as the fire alarm delivers the identification of the dwelling."

  * * * *

  Bill Lansing shook his head slowly. "I suppose you'd want penalties for falsification of the records?"

  "Naturally. False information might be quite deadly."

  "And sooner or later you'd issue licenses to purchase furniture and household goods to make certain that your records were accurate?"

  "Now that's the first good suggestion that I have ever heard you make, Lansing. Jim,"

  he said to Potter, "I know you'll give full credit for this suggestion when you present your thesis."

  "Most certainly, sir," said Potter, scribbling. Lansing raised his hands.

  "Chief Mooney, sir?"

  "Now what, Lansing?"

  "Before you continue along this line of reasoning, I think you had better consult an attorney for advice."

  "Why?"

  "Because I believe that any such requirement is a violation of the citizen's right to be free of unwarranted search. At any rate, it is a violation of his privacy."

  "It's for his own protection, confound it!" Mooney shook his head violently. "What do you know about law?"

  "Very little. That's why I suggested that you consult someone who does. I think your plan would require a constitutional amendment, a Supreme Court ruling, and a special department formed to enforce the requirements. It's a grand, blue-sky scheme, and totally impractical."

  "Lansing, have you ever heard of the N.I.H. attitude?"

  "No, sir. What does N. I. H. stand for?"

  " 'Not Invented Here.' It refers to those people who
go nit-picking and raising objections to anything they did not think of themselves. I withdraw my congratulations for your excellent suggestion because, it seems, it was meant as sarcasm. But to show you that we, at least, do not have the N. I. H. attitude, we'll still use your suggestion. It's a good one--regardless of its intent."

  "It won't work," said Lansing doggedly. "You'll hear a yell about 'police state' go up so loud that no one will touch the idea."

  "Now, don't accuse me of advocating anything antidemocratic."

  "I didn't."

  "Yes, you did! And if you and your kind would only offer positive suggestions instead of throwing stumbling blocks in the way of progress, we would all be better off. You think fast enough when you're objecting to someone else's idea, or when you're scheming a plot to squirrel my daughter out from under my eyes. Why don't you bend that fine brain to something constructive?"

  "Mr. Mooney, I--"

  "Lansing, you're nothing but an inept social climber who is playing in the wrong league. Why don't you leave quietly, you son of a fire claim adjuster?"

  "Now see here--"

  "You see here, Lansing. Get out!"

  "Father, Bill Lansing is

  my guest, and I--"

  "You go to your room, and stay there, young missy! Bill Lansing was your guest, past

  tense. No progress, just water? Well, fathers have been pouring cold water over hot romances for a couple of thousand years, too. So get!"

  * * * *

  Bill Lansing's return to his station was a doleful journey.

  It was late at night; or, more accurately, it was very early in the morning. Crammed in and jostling were the night people of the city. Some were tired, some were bored. Not a few were dozing in their subway seats. There were many couples engrossed with their own business, to the point where they cared little for their surroundings. But if there was one who could be as unhappy and frustrated with helpless rage and utter futility as Bill Lansing, it could not be known. For Lansing had no one to tell, no sympathetic ear to listen.