Sneak Preview

by Robert Bloch

  “If such is the case, then allow me to go on record personally in assuring you that Dean speaks the truth. The Domes can be opened up tomorrow, and dispensed with entirely. We can increase the population indefinitely without harm to our economy. We can not only raise the age-level of the Socially Secured, but abandon the entire program. We can, in short order, do away with the Declaration of Dependence and return to a form of government and economy similar to that which existed in the past. Dean’s statements and his conclusions are, in my opinion, entirely correct.”

  What’s this? Sigmond asked himself. Unconditional surrender? Senile dementia, more likely.

  “Before we put the matter to a vote,” Archer was saying, “there’s just one more thing we might consider. Planned Society is more than a political or economic concept. It is based upon the principle of psychiatric supervision. For that reason, I suggest we get an opinion from the one man best qualified to give us a sane, objective reaction—our Psycho Chief himself. Sigmond, what have you to say?”

  Plenty, Sigmond thought as he arose. I underestimated you, Archer. You know what you’re doing. You let Dean stick his neck out and now you’re letting me stick mine out. You won’t betray yourself by taking sides—but you’ll be there, ready to back the winner. No wonder you’ve always been Your MGMinence. And if I want to remain Psycho Chief, I’d better see that I win.

  The tall Psycho Chief stood there staring down at Dean for a long moment, and when he began to speak his voice was gentle.

  “His MGMinence is right, you know,” he said, softly. “You have given us facts and a partial conclusion. But no conclusion is correct unless it takes into account a clinical diagnosis of the situation.

  “You’ve studied your history, Dean. When you remind us of the old days, a hundred years ago, you’re speaking of a time when psychiatry was only a small and somewhat suspect branch of what was then called organized medicine. Its practitioners numbered less than ten thousand throughout the country, and its authority was limited to a purely advisory capacity. Those were evil days, Dean, in the time of the Big Neurosis, before the wars.

  “Then came the Big Trauma, and the picture changed. The Big Trauma, when the bombs fell. And psychiatry rose in general esteem. It was useful to the Brass of that day in dealing with the armed forces. It was useful in Intelligence work. Psychiatrists were called upon to counsel the leaders of industry and business and government, but still without official status or great power. On the individual level, psychiatry dealt only with those confined in institutions or those few who could afford to command private treatment. But respect for its opinions and techniques grew.

  “The Big Trauma continued. The enemy population of the world virtually vanished. Radiation and disease ravaged the earth, and we here at home were not immune to fallout, famine and frenzy.

  “Government, as we knew it then, vanished in the panic and peril of the times. There was no voice of authority remaining. Brass of that day had won a victory—but at a hideous price in lives and security. Brass was discredited. Economic leaders were suspect because they had ‘led us into war’ and ‘profited’ by it. The so-called ‘politicians’ and ‘religious leaders’ had shown themselves unable to prevent panic and privation. The country was disorganized; no civil or military authority was able to restore order.

  “And yet salvation was at hand. For by this time the so-called authorities had learned to rely upon psychiatrists for guidance in every crisis. The generals, business moguls, scientists, industrialists and intellectuals who looked to psychiatry for a solution of both personal and public problems now instinctively turned to them for leadership. And since psychiatrists now held key positions in military and civil life, there was less difficulty than might be expected. They knew how to influence public opinion, how to bring about the desired reactions on the part of the masses.”

  Sigmond paused. He allowed his voice to deepen and gather strength. “But we all know what happened,” he said. “Meanwell and Stolz were appointed, with broad temporary powers, by what was then the Congress of the United States. They convened the first Clinic and formulated the Declaration of Dependence. The Brass was behind them when, in a surprise move, they dissolved the very Congress that had given them free rein. They had control of the primitive TV-radio facilities as they directed the Brass in restoring order. They cooperated with the engineers and the scientists—whom we now refer to as Technos—in erecting the first Domes and installing oxygenerator equipment.

  “At first the workers were uncooperative, as might be expected. But once the Domes went up, once they realized they could be admitted and gain protection against fallout and disease, their attitudes changed.

  “There was opposition from the forces of politics and religion, but they had no weapons and no alternative plans—nor could they combat radioactivity with empty phrases. We had the Domes. And we had the plan. The plan of Planned Society.

  “Slowly we evolved the present pattern, creating the top-level leadership divisions of Psychos, Technos, Brass and Intelligence. It wasn’t ‘government’ in the old-fashioned meaning of the term—it was a delicate neuro-surgical operation on the body politic.

  “And there’s no need to tell you that the operation was a success. In three generations we have witnessed the triumph of psyche over soma, thanks to the introduction of new methods of therapy. As you know, we have analyzed the causes of social disorder—pinpointed the aggressive instincts which lead to atomobiological war on a broad scale or frustration and discontent on the part of the individual. Through the ages, men sought to thwart, stifle or deny the very presence of these instinctual drives. The leaders have always lied in the past. They told men that they were all created equal—that they were brothers who must turn the other cheek. They preached peace without attempting to harness the basic forces, internal and external, which lead only to continuing conflict.

  “Our therapy took other forms, Dean. Instead of denying the basic drives, we have chosen to satiate them through surrogates. There has been a redefinition of the nature of reality. Sound Psycho principles govern every aspect of life here in the Domes. And the Domes themselves are admirable microcosms, in which we can experiment in our search for social stability and adjustment.

  “Our experiment has been successful. That you have already admitted. And why? Because the very physical nature of the Domes lends itself to control. That’s the secret of our way of life, Dean—control. Control leading to adjustment. Adjustment leading to security.

  “Suppose we have reached a time when we can give up the Domes without physical danger. What do we stand to gain? We’re not overcrowded now. The standard of living surpasses anything known in history. There’s no need for more room.

  “Population-wise, what possible end can be served by the spawning of additional millions? Again, what do we stand to gain by such a move?”

  Sigmond stared at Archer, trying to read that timid, tired face—a face which he now recognized was only a façade.

  “That’s a question I cannot answer, a question you have not answered. What do we stand to gain by this?” He wheeled now and levelled a finger at Dean. “There is however, one question I can and must answer. A question we all must consider. What do we have to lose?

  “The moment we open up the Domes, we lose the whole basic pattern of our success. We lose control.

  “Disperse the population over a wide area, and see how quickly a wide difference in living patterns due to varied climate and geography will lead to a resumption of all the old rivalries—North against South, farm against city, black against white, and all the rest.

  “Eliminate the program for the Socially Secured and you’ll set up again the patterns of hatred which split old-fashioned society into two secretly warring camps—the struggle between Youth and Old Age.

  “Do away with hypnotherapy conditioning and the Big Family Unit will disappear. Before you know it, we’ll be back to the old style family situation; the very source of inner conflict and
tension.

  “We couldn’t hope to combat these things, gentlemen. All our facilities for education and opinion-moulding—TV, emotion pictures, information-screening—couldn’t hope to function efficiently amidst a dispersed population. Even in the days of the Big Neurosis, when mass psychology was just a primitive tool in the hands of amateurs called ‘advertising men’, there was a name for a group such as ours. It was called a ‘captive audience.’ We can’t afford to lose them.

  “Lose them, and we lose our lives. Turn them loose and they’ll turn against us, in the name of freedom. Freedom! Freedom from our surrogates means only freedom to kill, to destroy.”

  Sigmond paused and sighed. “Perhaps you think I speak as I do out of selfishness, out of fear for my own safety and yours. That is not the case. I would gladly make any sacrifice—even the sacrifice of my life—if I thought it would truly serve the greater good. But I am a Psycho. I have devoted my existence to the study of humanity. And I know that Mankind is not yet ready to move ahead without psychiatric control. He will use his freedom not only against us but against himself.

  “What Dean here is really proposing is to turn back the tide of history. He is asking us to revert to the days of the Big Psychosis, the time of anarchy.

  “Gentlemen, it is up to you to make a choice. But remember—if you choose to abandon the Domes, abandon the sound system of control we have so carefully set up, you are choosing the inevitable consequences of that decision. You are choosing a return to the old competitive economy, a return to religion and politics and yes, even monogamy! You are choosing war. You are choosing so-called individual freedom at the expense of mass aberration.”

  Sigmond sat down. His own words had moved him more strongly than he realized—for he had spoken out of the uttermost depths of his inmost conviction. Now he found himself oddly empty and depleted.

  In an effort to shake himself out of the mood, he forced his attention away from the present scene. He refused to permit himself to listen to Dean’s hesitant rebuttal, or to observe the reaction of his audience here in the room. Instead he directed his attention to a totally different problem.

  As Archer rose and called for a vote on the question, Sigmond concentrated on the problem of the young Talent whom Wanda had brought in for processing just before the meeting began. It was just a routine checkup, probably, but Wanda was a pretty shrewd operator and there might be something worth investigating here. If she thought it was important, he’d better not take any chances Well, the boys were working on it right now, and it wouldn’t take long to get a scenario into filming. He could assemble the film and study it right after this meeting ended. Wanda seemed insistent that he handle this Talent’s problem personally.

  And now, what was this interruption? Sigmond jerked back to awareness. Ah, yes, the vote. The question. Archer was calling for a show of hands.

  “All those in favor of—”

  Sigmond felt excitement ripple up his spine as he peered around the room. How many hands would be going up?

  Dean’s, of course. And that Medic, Ormsbee, the one who supported him on population-increases. Sigmond made a mental note to look into Ormsbee’s background too.

  At the same time he permitted himself to relax. Only two hands in favor.

  “All those opposed—”

  Sigmond raised his own hand, exulting in spite of himself as he saw his gesture duplicated all around the table.

  Of course. The motion was defeated. There was nothing to fear. He could handle Dean and Ormsbee, unless His MGMinence Archer chose to take care of it himself.

  He smiled down the table at Archer, as the meeting adjourned. Perhaps it might be wise to say a word to him in private.

  No, that could wait. Archer was going to play his game of the impartial observer—why spoil it with a public discussion?

  Several of the group, including Techno Chief Schwartz and Brass Chief Hix, came up now to congratulate Sigmond on his speech. He nodded, made the customary acknowledgments, and moved away as quickly as possible.

  He left the chamber and returned to ground level prepared to take up his daily duties once more. This Talent matter, now—

  Young West was waiting for him in his office.

  “What’s the report?” he asked. “Do a scenario?”

  “All filmed.” West tried to keep from smirking, but he was obviously quite pleased with himself. “Rankin’s keeping watch over him upstairs—he’s still out.”

  “What’s his name, by the way?”

  “Graham.” West waited, obviously expecting a reaction, and when none came, he added, “Lewis’s son.”

  “Lewis? You don’t mean—?”

  “Exactly.” West was smirking openly, now. “Quite a surprise, isn’t it? I think you’ll find the film extremely interesting.”

  Sigmond privately agreed, but he tried to conceal his impatience. “Very well, I’ll look at it if you like.” Then, keeping his voice casual, he asked, “What’s your prognosis?”

  West licked his lips. “Of course it’s really not my place to say anything of a prejudicial nature,” he murmured. “But if you ask me, on the basis of what I’ve seen, Graham is just about ready for a little trip back to the Womb.”

  FLASHBACK: REMEMBER WHEN?

  Mrs. Waring was a sensible woman.

  Her main regret was that her parents had permitted the removal of her tonsils and adenoids when she was ten years old.

  At the time, of course, they couldn’t possibly have known what harm was involved. Doctors performed tonsilectomies regularly, and it wasn’t until recent years that medical science realized the importance of the tonsils as a safeguard against virus infection.

  Mrs. Waring had great respect for medical science and its progress. She read about organ transplants in the daily papers, sex-change surgery in the weekly news magazines, and revolutionary new face-lifting techniques in the monthly digests.

  She considered it her duty to be well-informed, and to act upon that information. “A sound mind in a sound body” was a healthy maxim to observe, and Mrs. Waring did her best to live by it.

  Not that she was one of those hypochondriacs who are always running to doctors. In the first place, you couldn’t just “run” nowadays; you had to make an appointment in advance. Not just with one doctor, but with many. There weren’t many general practitioners around any more, they all seemed to specialize. And by the time you got through with the internist, the cardiologist, the endocrinologist, the gynecologist, the proctologist, the orthopedist, pediatrician, the eye, ear, nose and throat man, the physicians whose practices were limited to dermatology, immunology, obesity, allergy, internal medicine, surgery, psychology, psychiatry and all the rest, you’d spend a fortune. And this without even entering a hospital, which could bankrupt you if you weren’t careful.

  But Mrs. Waring was careful, and she kept up with medical advances on her own.

  Joe, her late husband, hadn’t paid any attention to his health. He abused his body with overwork and alcohol and cigar-smoking, and God only knows what kind of a physical wreck he might have become at forty if he hadn’t had the good fortune to be hit by a truck when he was thirty-nine.

  A widow at thirty-six, Mrs. Waring profited by his sorry example. She kept regular hours, never allowed herself to over-exert, didn’t drink and didn’t smoke. As for sex, she’d given it up several years before Joe passed away. It wasn’t that she had an unhealthy attitude towards normal sexual activity; quite the contrary, in fact. But she was intelligent enough to be aware of the perils attendant upon conception and there just wasn’t any safe precaution against pregnancy. At first she’d used a diaphragm, until she read that diaphragms and pessaries could cause cancer of the cervix or uterus. Then she’d tried the Pill, but later findings seemed to indicate that the Pill might be a cancer-inducing factor too, or at least produce dangerous side-effects. So abstinence was the sensible solution, as it was with smoking and drinking.

  Mrs. Waring had been one of the
first to advocate fluoridation of water to prevent dental cares. When recent articles stressed the possible dangers of an overdose of fluorides, she switched to spring water immediately. Besides, the bottled product was free of all the impurities and pollutants caused by detergents and pesticides in the regular water supply. A minor matter, perhaps, but it could be important. Like brushing your teeth in salt water instead of using toothpaste, and taking care to massage the gums. The danger here was in over-massaging, but she tried to strike a happy medium. Naturally, she avoided sweets—sugar was bad for the teeth. And no electric toothbrush; you might chip the enamel, and that was bad.

  So many things to think of, but health comes first. And a sensible person didn’t need to rely on medication. In fact, according to what she read, a sensible person did well to avoid medication whenever possible.

  Mrs. Waring heeded the warnings about sleeping pills that upset the REM cycle, tranquilizers that affected the equilibrium and pep pills that produced chemical imbalance in the system. After scanning news items about experiments producing physiological disturbances, she gave up aspirin too.

  Thank goodness she had always had common sense when it came to clothing. No high-heeled shoes to tip her womb, no tight shoes to cut off circulation. And no girdles or bras, for the same reason.

  In matters of personal cleanliness and hygiene, her reading helped her greatly.

  She gave up washing her face when she learned that too much soap and water robs the skin of its natural oils. For a time she relied on a facial cream until an authoritative article demonstrated that it clogged the tissues and prevented the skin from “breathing” properly. Another article claimed that this was a malicious falsehood—sheer hardpore cornography. As a result, Mrs. Waring went back to facial cream, but in moderation. She was moderate about her bathing, too; no bath oil, and just a very mild soap that couldn’t harm the skin. Naturally she learned to avoid cosmetics of any sort. And deodorants that actually stopped perspiration.

  For good complexion, Mrs. Waring learned to rely on a proper diet. Again, reading came to her rescue.