Sneak Preview

by Robert Bloch

  And the roof was spinning, the sky beneath the Dome was spinning, and the voices were spinning all around him.

  “That’s better,” the short man was saying. “Now he’s all set for a trip to the Womb.”

  Graham couldn’t be sure he heard it right. The darkness was rushing up much too suddenly, and it filled his ears as well as his eyes. Maybe the short man hadn’t said, “Womb.” Maybe he’d said, “Tomb.”

  Graham tried to shrug before he fell, as the realization came to him.

  Womb or tomb, it wouldn’t matter either way now.

  FLASHBACK: A TOUCH OF NOSTALGIA

  Mr. Trocar stood in the doorway of his home, smoking a cigar. Its aroma blended with the night-borne scent of magnolia blossoms, and Mr. Trocar inhaled gratefully. Every breath he took was a prayer of thanks, and he never tired of counting his blessings.

  It was truly great to be alive. To wear nice clothes, mingle with the best people, enjoy inspirational messages, drive nothing but shiny new Cadillacs, be surrounded by music and flowers every day and dwell in the biggest, most imposing home in town.

  Such was Mr. Trocar’s existence, for he was a Funeral Director.

  Not an undertaker, not a mortician—such vulgar designations were obsolete. Years ago, when Mr. Trocar first embarked upon his profession as a lowly licensed embalmer, there had been a certain lack of respect—almost a stigma—attached to his calling. But the ideals of dignity and service gradually prevailed, thanks to efficient public relations, and now Mr. Trocar was a leading citizen in his community. A Funeral Director, his name emblazoned in bold-face type in the Yellow Pages.

  Such eminence had not been attained without effort. Even today, with a staff of seven, it wasn’t unusual for Mr. Trocar to work around the clock. Afternoons were ideal times for casket-selection in the showroom; then came the signing of the contract—a truly crucial moment—followed by all the paperwork, the filling out of forms and permits. A hasty meal, perhaps, while his assistants were conveying the deceased from home, hospital or morgue, and then it was time to make an appearance amongst the mourners whenever a priorly-prepared loved one was lying in state in the parlors. Sometimes there was more than one to be displayed, and Mr. Trocar had learned how to divide his attentions diplomatically. Meanwhile, downstairs, the new arrival was being readied for preparation, and although Mr. Trocar trusted his employees, he always made a point of personally supervising each step of the work. There were so many difficult problems which only his long experience could solve. In many instances he was up half the night on an assignment. And in the morning there were often services in the chapel, calling for a relentless round of details to be attended to. No matter how smoothly the system functioned, he always had an eye on the clock, for this was a business of constant deadlines.

  Privately, Mr. Trocar reproached himself for the use of the term. It was unfortunate, but he had never discovered a suitable synonym. And there were times when one simply had to call a spade a spade.

  Not that spades were needed any more. The automatic grave-digging machines were a great invention. In his time, Mr. Trocar had seen many such advances in his field, and he welcomed them all.

  He had no patience with this outcry against automation. Throw people out of work? But there was always other work to replace the lost job, because there were always more people. And people needed services. Vital services, such as his.

  Mr. Trocar prided himself on being a man of the world. He’d seen a great deal of it in his time—made a point of traveling whenever possible, to enrich his store of knowledge. He had visited everywhere; Westminster Abbey, Forest Lawn, the great Long Island cemetaries, virtual cities in themselves. There’s nothing like travel for teaching one the facts of life.

  As a result, he had no sympathy for the grumblers, the whiners, the pessimists. Most of them were merely lazy and incompetent, shiftless and ungrateful. Always anxious to complain about compulsory embalming, but never ready to get out and do an honest day’s work to pay for it. He knew the type—they had no respect, not even for their own loved ones. Left to themselves, they’d probably opt for the cheapest possible cremation, even a civil ceremony controlled by the state, without benefit of clergy. Godless communism, that’s what they wanted.

  Mr. Trocar ground the dead—no, the deceased—butt of his cigar underfoot. He sighed heavily, thinking of the near disaster which had loomed a mere decade ago. That had been a time to try men’s souls, when those books had been published. Malicious, irreverent books, so-called “exposés” of the profession, charging God knows what-all—price-gouging, lobbying, conspiracy, racketeering. For a time it seemed as if disaster loomed for the entire industry. But Mr. Trocar wasn’t one of your negative thinkers. Instead of weeping and wailing, he’d maintained his faith in humanity.

  And sure enough, his faith had been rewarded. A series of political assassinations occurred, and the solemn obsequies shown on television had stilled all outcries.

  Which just goes to show that there’s a good side to everything. Not that Mr. Trocar was happy about the assassinations; but even in death these great men had performed a service for their country by restoring dignity and importance to funeral services. And today the profession was better off than ever.

  Of course there were other problems, always would be, but Mr. Trocar refused to bemoan them.

  Take the war, now. No doubt it was a terrible thing, all that suffering and bloodshed, to say nothing of the high taxes. Yet there was no point in sitting around crying about a situation; a fellow had to look on the positive side.

  For example, he’d been talking things over with his nephew lately—a bright young man, solid background, working with an industrial design outfit over in Atlanta—and they’d come up with what could be a pretty sound idea. In fact, it might turn into a real patriotic contribution to the war effort.

  What it was, really, was a mobile service unit; a kind of a trailer completely outfitted as a portable embalming unit. With just one funeral director and a driver doubling as an assistant, you could take it right up to the front lines and do the whole job on the spot. Some people in the profession might object on the grounds that it would interfere with established procedure, but Mr. Trocar was prepared for that; as far as he was concerned, the loved one could be flown back to the States for the actual funeral and burial just as it always had been done. This was merely an added service—an additional benefit, available to all, regardless of race, color or creed; name, rank and serial number. Good sanitary precaution, too, in that hot climate; parents and relatives would certainly appreciate the importance of that. No reason at all why the whole operation, from designing and building the actual mobile mortuaries to the cost per each embalming, shouldn’t be paid for by the Government. Might even set up a whole separate branch of service, just like the Medical Corps. His nephew had even suggested a name—the Corpse Corps—but Mr. Trocar pointed out that in a potential multi-billion-dollar operation there was no room for sacrilege.

  Point was, you can’t stop progress, and every cloud has a silver lining. Take this integration problem, now. Mr. Trocar was no radical, but for years he’d made a point of getting up at club meetings and openly admitting that some of his best customers were Jews. And when it came to the colored, sure he was all for keeping them in their place, but if the law of the land said they could be buried in white cemetaries you had to respect it. Besides, it usually meant the colored would buy a better grade of casket and a more complete service, which was all to the good—it helped raise their standard of living.

  Automobile accidents, now. There was another thing. Of course traffic fatalities were pretty bad, and speaking from a purely selfish standpoint, they created a lot of grief for a conscientious funeral director who had to take a damaged loved one and restore limbs and features for open-casket viewing overnight. But practice makes perfect, and the mere fact that more people were victims of car accidents meant that there was more opportunity for learning how to do cosmetic work o
n them. With the result that the families of the deceased stood an increasingly good chance of being able to take pride in the results of such efforts.

  Mr. Trocar took one last good whiff of magnolia blossoms before turning to descend into the air-conditioned chill of his working quarters. Maybe there wouldn’t be much chance to smell magnolias any more, what with this talk of air-pollution and all the rest. But even pollution had its purpose in the inscrutable scheme of things. Maybe there were just too many people nowadays. Either way, he couldn’t complain. Rich or poor, in peace or war, prosperity or depression, fair air or foul, they were all human—or, as Mr. Trocar preferred to think of them, mortal.

  Mr. Trocar stepped inside, reaching for a fresh cigar as he did so. After all, he could afford it, because business was good.

  And it would get better . . .

  CHAPTER 5

  In the great Twenty-First-Century-Vox Studios, in the citistate of Holywood, the top level proceedings began slowly.

  Sigmond squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he was in a posture-chair. But of course there were no posture-chairs here in the Conference Suite.

  It was a whim on the part of Archer, His MGMinence. The tall, thin, hawk-faced man at the head of the table had deliberately chosen to surround himself with the quaint decor of olden times, including all the appurtenances of a medieval “executive suite.” In the past, in the days of actual “executive suites,” the presidents and chairmen of boards held similar affectations—they indulged themselves in Victorian panelling and Currier and Ives prints in their sanctums.

  Sigmond recognized the pattern: the need of authority to bolster its position with symbols of continuity—to hint discreetly that nothing had changed or would ever change, and that the man at the head of the table belonged there by hereditary right and would always remain in that spot.

  It pleased Sigmond to realize that Archer felt such basic insecurity, but at the same time he could do with a bit more comfort.

  And it annoyed him not a little to see Archer affecting the speech mannerisms and even the dress of another era. Really, the “business suit” he wore belonged at a masquerade—it looked positively grotesque here, when the man was surrounded by the priestly white of his fellow Psychos, the service blue of the Technobility, and the khaki of the Brass. Even Archer’s rimless eyeglasses were an anachronism in this collection of costly and ornate frames.

  He looked ineffectual and ill at ease now as he rapped for order with an old-fashioned gavel, and his voice was soft and hesitant.

  “Let us dispense with formalities,” he was saying. “We are gathered here to consider a question of basic policy. That question has been raised, and will be presented now, by our good friend, Dean.”

  He gazed down the table and Sigmond searched the row of faces across from him until he located the little sandy-haired man in charge of the Egghead division.

  Sigmond was surprised to hear that Dean was raising an issue. He knew him only as a quiet, efficient worker in his special field—which, as the name implied, was that of education. Somebody on Sigmond’s staff must have a complete dossière on Dean’s background as a matter of course, but there had never been any reason for Sigmond himself to check on him.

  Now the little man was on his feet, clearing his throat and running one hand nervously through his hair.

  “Your MGMinence, fellow workers. I have recently been in consultation with various officials in both the Techno and the Intelligence divisions. I questioned them deliberately in order to verify certain conclusions of my own—conclusions based on research in the educational field. As you know, it is my duty to work with facts. And the facts available to me recently lead to inevitable validation. I’ve gathered all the data and testimony and placed it in the hands of His MGMinence before asking permission to speak here this afternoon. And here is what the facts tell us.”

  Dean paused.

  Just what are you driving at? Sigmond wondered.

  He found out in a moment. “The facts tell us that we’ve done a good job in the past. In less than three generations, Planned Society has done away with disease, poverty, war, personal insecurity. We have eliminated competitive economy, political and religious strife. We have exploded once and for all the pernicious old fallacy that ‘you can’t change human nature.’ We have changed it, and for the better.

  “As a Commontator I teach the young, the future workers of the Ideal States of America, to appreciate their good fortune. I teach them that all our wants and needs are cared for by a regular system of interchange between three thousand Domes, without the use of currency, or the oldstyle profit motive which led only to friction and unrest. Our population of thirty millions is assured of food, clothing, shelter, medical and psychiatric assistance as part of the Standard Allotment. Recreation and luxuries can be earned by making a good personal adjustment to working and living conditions. Every worker over the age of fifty is Socially Secured, and the average life-expectancy has risen to one hundred years. So far, so good. I’ve no quarrel with it. But in view of the facts now at our disposal, we must move further. Have we gone as far as we can go? Is what we have done good enough? I say the answer is ‘no’!”

  They were listening to Dean now, all of them. His voice was flat and uninspired, but it had been a long time since the word “no” had been uttered in the presence of His MGMinence.

  “The time has come when it is safe to abandon the Domes. Vast areas outside have been tested and found to be thoroughly decontaminated. There is no longer a need to depend on special farm areas or hydroponic installations. The entire continent is again ready for human habitation.”

  Dean’s final sentences were almost drowned out in the excited buzzing which arose from both sides of the table. He hesitated, then went on.

  “This is not my opinion. I repeat, it’s authenticated information, coming directly from Schwartz himself.”

  Eyes turned now to regard the plump, swarthy Techno Chief at the other end of the table.

  “Well, Schwartz?” Dean challenged. “Is what I say here the truth?”

  Schwartz nodded indifferently. “Our Geiger Count for the past three years is well below minimum, on the basis of eighteen thousand separate checks. Field surveys and readings bear this out. His MGMinence is in possesion of this data.”

  The buzzing rose again, and Dean’s voice quelled it.

  “That’s not all,” he proclaimed. “There are other factors. Our production-rate, for example. Even now, inside the Domes, we have ample living space and provision for a population of fifty millions instead of thirty. Once we leave the Domes there’s no reason why we can’t double or triple this figure—don’t forget that a hundred years ago this country supported two hundred and forty million people. True, Ormsbee?”

  Sigmond saw his Medic colleague nod emphatically.

  “Therefore,” Dean continued hastily, “I advocate the immediate revision of our policy toward the Socially Secured. Even without leaving the Domes we can raise the age-level from fifty to sixty. We can remove checks upon population entirely. We can, when we abandon the Domes, eliminate a great portion of our conditioning techniques, including hypnotherapy. Let us move forward once more, confidently and aggressively, into a new era of freedom—”

  This time the little man was not interrupted by a buzz, but by a roar. Half a dozen white-clad figures fluttered to their feet, but it was the khaki-clad Hix, Chief of Brass, whose shattering bellow claimed attention.

  “What are you driving at?” he demanded. “Next thing you’ll have us repealing the Declaration of Dependence!”

  The blasphemy shocked them into silence. And Dean took advantage of it to reply.

  “Yes,” he said, softly. “This will come too, in time.” He peered earnestly at the faces around him. “We have founded a planned Society, and all has gone well. So well that we’ve become overly complacent. We’ve unconsciously come to accept the status quo as a fixed and eternal norm. But the world changes. Physical condit
ions change. And we must change with them in order to survive. Unless we are willing to move forward we shall inevitably go backward.

  “It is not easy for us to consider giving up certain rights and privileges we now enjoy as directors of this social order. But I say to you that we must. A glance at history is sufficient to remind us of this fact. Unless we take steps, we shall find ourselves going the way of all leaders who refused to recognize the need of change in the past The kings, emperors, knights, nobles, industrial despots, rugged individualists. All of them vanished, whether they ruled by the divine right of kings or the power of the almighty dollar. Let’s not make the same mistake of opposing progress. I say, open the Domes at once.”

  Dean sat down suddenly, so suddenly that his audience was unprepared for it. There was no buzzing; merely a silence in which each man sought to read the reaction of his fellows.

  Sigmond alone was impassive. So he dropped his C-bomb, he thought. Whoever would have expected it, and from him, of all people? Better check on his background immediately.

  Then he dismissed the thought. Right now he wanted to consider what would happen next. Surely Archer must be prepared to answer this heresy.

  And yes, now his MGMinence was rising to his feet. It would be interesting to see how his counter-strategy evolved.

  “Gentlemen,” he began. “I’m sure we have all given serious consideration to what our good friend Dean has said here. I can assure you that he has indeed given me a complete file of reports from various departments which back up his findings.”

  Archer paused, and Sigmond waited for him to continue with anticipatory relish. He recognized the gambit now—disarm your opponent by conceding something, then move in for the kill.

  “However,” Archer droned, “I feel that some of you are not entirely convinced. Perhaps you recall an ancient proverb that figures don’t lie, but liars can figure.