Sneak Preview

by Robert Bloch

  “Did you know that they did try to establish colonies for the Socially Secured at first, here in the south? But they lacked the necessary manpower, the necessary industrial output to support the project. It was too expensive, so eventually they just set up the present system.”

  “But why did they have to? Why enforce retirement at fifty? Why not let men live out their natural span?” Graham demanded. “They can open the Domes now. The threat of radioactivity is over. This country could support a larger population.”

  “I don’t know,” Considine sighed. “I really don’t know. You’ll have to ask somebody else.”

  A few weeks beforehand, this suggestion would have seemed absurd to Graham. But he was no longer a prisoner, now. After his daily sessions with Considine, he found he was free to come and go as he pleased.

  Life in the Insanatorium and on the Key was complex. Graham found that Doc hadn’t lied: he and his people, here and in the neighboring institutions on adjoining Keys, had set up an elaborate system of experimentation and preparation. Behind the protective regimen of Psycho control, which was maintained solely for the purpose of deceiving visiting Brass, the rebel group was determined and dedicated. Each month the boats went out when the jets went over, and each month Krug or his counterparts paid a courtesy call or made a perfunctory tour of inspection. There was never anything amiss; during these interludes the patients were kept in confinement, the Psychos and Technos and lesser personnel went about their accustomed duties. But in between, there were no distinctions and no pretenses of maintaining an Insanatorium—except, of course, when Doc made his regular telereports to headquarters in the East or out in Holywood.

  Doc (whose real name, Graham discovered, was Lee) explained the situation tersely. “It didn’t happen overnight,” he said. “Took years to gradually transform an actual Insanatorium into the present pattern. Had to weed out a lot of the former personnel here. A few we indoctrinated. Others we—eliminated.” He zipped a finger across his throat and smiled, not at all pleasantly. “We’ve had to lie and cheat and steal and smuggle in material for our lab work. Built ’em underground, of course. And for a long time we didn’t have sufficient staff members to function. But we’ve recruited patients and survivors, as I told you, and for the past few years there’s been no problem.”

  “But are you sure no one suspects?”

  “Fairly certain. After all, we do effect some ‘cures’ here. That’s a necessary safeguard, you know—every month or so, we get new patients for treatment. The majority, I’m happy to say, are like yourself: Talents and other nonconformists. Most of them are quite eager to enlist in the cause. The others—” Doc made the zipping gesture again.

  “Some of the Talents we retain, as incurables. Others we ‘cure’ and send back to their former posts. So you see, the process of infiltration has already begun. All over the Domes, in various capacities, we have men working and waiting. They each know what to do when the time comes. What we needed, though, was someone like yourself—a man who could get into Holywood. Being away from that area, our Insanatoriums never got any Talents who were stationed around there. And we need at least one, to work on the top level. He’ll set everything off according to plan.”

  “Just what is your plan? I still don’t see—”

  “It’s better that you don’t, at the moment. Considine knows what his role will be. We did a good job on him, didn’t we?”

  “Remarkable. I still can’t get over the resemblance. For that matter, I don’t understand—”

  “Sorry.” Doc’s voice was brusque. “Too busy, now. I’ll explain another time.”

  Graham had no doubt that he spoke the truth. Doc was indeed busy. Everyone was very active and busy here.

  A trip through the underground laboratory areas convinced him of that much.

  Clare took him through. She was spending as much time as possible with him these days—whenever he wasn’t occupied in sessions with Considine, and whenever she could get away from her clerical staff work as one of Doc’s assistants.

  She introduced him to a number of men working on the lab projects, and Graham soon realized that Doc hadn’t lied about their abilities. There were Technos and Talents from Domes throughout the eastern area, and a surprising number of men and women over fifty.

  At first Graham found himself uneasy in their presence. Clare noticed, of course, and commented upon it.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, after an interview with a gray-haired Techno who had been explaining his work on sensory tracks for a Realie. “You were scarcely civil to that man.”

  “I can’t help it,” Graham confessed. “It’s just that I’m not used to being around senile people.”

  “Senile? He’s only fifty-six.”

  “Nobody’s that old, except on top level. And he seemed so nervous.”

  “Nervous? You’d be nervous, too—remember what he’s been through! He was gassed, dropped into the sea, and drowning when our boat picked him up two years ago. He really needed genuine therapy from Doc when he arrived here. But there’s certainly nothing seriously wrong with him now—you seem to have been impressed by what he told you about his work.”

  “Of course I was impressed,” Graham admitted. “The whole setup is impressive. Why, you’ve got a technical staff here that can turn out Realies to compete with anything they do in Holywood! Just duplicating the necessary equipment must have been a major job—nobody’s allowed to even touch the machinery in the Domes except the Technos directly in charge. Why, I’ve been a Talent for years and half of the instruments here I was never permitted to see at Laguna.”

  “The people you call senile are the ones who built them for us,” Clare said.

  “But why? What’s their purpose? Are you making Realies here?”

  “Not yet,” the girl answered. “When the time comes—”

  “Can’t you tell me what the plans are?”

  Clare shook her head.

  She shook it again when Graham, wandering through the underground labyrinth of air-conditioned passages, attempted to enter a doorway at the far end of a remote passage.

  “We can’t go in there,” she explained. “Off limits.”

  “Off limits? But why?”

  “Medical research. Their labs are separated.” She smiled and took his hand. “Now, don’t ask me what kind of research they’re doing, because I’m not allowed to answer that either. Doc will explain, soon.”

  Graham got the same evasive answer from Considine, during their next session together.

  “That’s not my department,” he said. “Let Doc tell you. It all ties in with the plan.”

  “Plan!” Graham scowled. “That’s all I hear about—this mysterious ‘plan’. How can he expect to take over the Domes and upset the established order from down here? What’s he doing, trying to invent some kind of death-ray, some secret weapon out of those old science fiction books? Maybe Doc needs a little therapy himself.”

  “Perhaps you do,” Considine said, gently. “Why don’t you go to Doc and ask him?”

  In the end, that’s just what Graham did.

  He confronted the older man in his own office-apartments the following evening.

  “Good to see you,” Doc said. “I was just about to suggest we get together for a talk. According to reports received today, the time for action has arrived. And our plans call for—”

  “Your plans?” Graham grimaced. “I suppose I was right. You’ve come up with some kind of secret weapon, haven’t you? A secret weapon to destroy the system?”

  “Indeed we have,” said Doc.

  “What is it, anti-gravity? A disintegrator? Are you going to blast the Domes? Remember, I’m a Talent. I know all about Mad Scientists. Oh, I think I’ve already guessed your precious plan. You intend to send Considine back to Laguna in my place, smuggle him into Holywood from there, and let him blow the whole place to bits. He’ll have the secret weapon, won’t he?”

  Doc nodded, smiling. “Yo
u’re partially right, of course,” he answered. “We do intend to send Considine back as your substitute, and we do expect him to get to Holywood—I’m sure Sigmond would insist on a personal interview with a Talent before considering it safe to restore him to active duty. But there won’t be any melodramatic nonsense about blowing the place to bits.”

  “I thought you admitted Considine will have the secret weapon?”

  “And so he shall,” Doc said. “The only weapon that can possibly destroy the present order.”

  “What kind of a weapon is that?”

  “Haven’t you discovered that for yourself yet?” Doc smiled again. “The secret weapon is—Youth!”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Let me put it this way,” Doc said. “When psychologists and social scientists attempted to analyze the sources of aggression, back in the old days, they missed the really important one. Probably because they were so closely involved in the pattern themselves that they were unable to realize just how all-encompassing it was. Whatever the reasons, they did miss. They failed to recognize that the basic struggle in old-fashioned society was not that of Capital versus Labor, or Male versus Female, or Civil Authority versus Military Authority, or even Science versus Religion.

  “The big clash was simply Youth versus Age.

  “It must have started about the same time as psychology-worship, over a hundred years ago. It was largely the work of the old radio-television-motion picture-advertising cliques. Slowly but surely, at first probably by accident and then more and more consciously and deliberately, they created a Youth Cult here in the old United States of America. They made a fetish of adolescence.

  “You can see it in their ancient films, their ancient books, their ancient advertisements; the theme is implicit and unmistakable. Nothing worthwhile, according to this premise, ever happened to ‘old people’ or the ‘middle-aged’. All romance, adventure and achievement were the province and prerogative of youth alone. Back in the latter years of the Twentieth Century, everyone wanted, above all else, to ‘look young’. It was an age of bizarre, self-conscious hair styles, of juvenile slang, of music written for and by adolescents and delivered by adolescents to celebrate adolescent supremacy. Business, industry and the armed forces all solicited youth, but offered little opportunity to any newcomer over the age of thirty. It was literally a social crime to be ‘old’ unless one was in a position of wealth and power.

  “The few attainting such status were resented by the young people beneath them—indeed, the whole competitive economy worked to increase the friction between youth and age. The elderly poor were resented as an economic burden; the elderly rich were an economic menace. In either case, old age was hated.

  “After the War, and the Declaration of Dependence, the same condition prevailed in the new social order. A few powerful oldsters remained safe and secure on top, and the many indigents were doomed to exile and murder. The present disposition of the Socially Secured is merely a logical extension of the attitudes and modes of earlier times—when old people were sentenced to drag out their declining years on state charity or the grudging bounty of their offspring.”

  Graham sighed. “I know it’s true,” he said. “But you’d think the Psychos would recognize it. Haven’t they tried to eliminate killing and hatred?”

  “You know better than that,” Doc answered. “All they’ve really done is channelize aggressions which might otherwise be directed against their own authority. That’s why we have the Sadies—what are they but psychodrama units where people are permitted to torture and destroy dummies and vent their pent-up aggressions as catharsis? That’s the reason for the Playdiums. Look at your own field—the emotion-picture, and 4D auto-erotic sexaphones! Remember the manicycle duels; merely a natural sequential development of the old automotive days when motorists drove in savage and suppressed hatred of their fellows on the open roads. And what of the sexual outlets—the Fornivacations and the Libidose?

  “Of course, even these developments haven’t really solved the situation. The Psychos still had to create the Womb and the Insanatorium to take care of non-conformists and avoid the danger of questioning or open revolt. They think they’re secure now, because they’ve drained off all the rebel elements in the population, but they’re wrong. Top ranks are really weak—it’s a case of too many Chiefs and not enough introverts. And that’s where our opportunity lies. All their control is centered in the channels of communication. If we can commandeer those channels—”

  “Then what? You expect to deluge the Domes with counter-propaganda?”

  “No,” Doc murmured. “We’re done with deception. All that’s needed is tell the truth. We’ll wait until the next flight comes over; it’s due in just a couple of days now. This time we’ll do more than send out the boats for rescue. The vessels will be equipped for recording. We’ll be taking Realies of everything that happens—we’ll show the actual fate of the Socially Secured. What do you suppose will happen when we beam those Realies out from Holywood to every screen in the country?”

  “But how will you get to Holywood, how will you gain access to the beaming centers?”

  “That part is easy,” Doc assured him. “Wait and see.” He grinned. “A week from today, if all goes well, we’ll be in Holywood and we’ll control the media.”

  “Just like that, eh?” Graham sighed. “And supposing I believe it’s possible, supposing it actually happens—then what? Do you really imagine that just by exposing the murder of the Socially Secured you’re going to win over a psychologically-conditioned population? It’s too simple to be sound.”

  “Of course. But I told you we had another weapon. Youth—”

  He paused and turned as Clare entered.

  “The reports just came,” she said. “The Jets are taking off now. They’re due over us in three hours!”

  “Now? But I was told the flight was scheduled for the end of the week.”

  “I know. Something must have happened to step up the program.”

  “Three hours!” Doc shook his head. “We have no time for adequate preparation. I’ll have to call a general assembly at once.”

  “I’ve already put the message through. We’ll meet below in ten minutes.” Clare nodded.

  “And your detail?”

  “The crews will be on the boats, and the equipment mounted and in place.”

  “Good.” Doc rose and beckoned to Graham. “You’ll come with me,” he said.

  And so it was, in the meeting area beneath the Insanatorium, that Graham learned the first steps in what was to come. The entire personnel had assembled, and when he glanced at the earnest faces surrounding him he was conscious of suppressed excitement but no surprise, no consternation. This was expected; this was what everyone had been waiting for.

  Doc’s briefing was a mere verbal shorthand; they already knew what to do, for everything had been planned and rehearsed.

  The boats were going out manned by full technical crews, to record the dumping of the Socially Secured. Every detail had been carefully anticipated, each man had been assigned his set task.

  But that was only the first part of the program. After the recordings were made, when the jets prepared to wheel back for their return flight—

  “No!” Graham gasped, from his place in the assemblage at Clare’s side. “It’ll never work! It isn’t possible!”

  “It must!” Clare whispered, furiously. “Don’t you see that it’s our one opportunity? That’s why you and Considine went through all this. And he’s not the only one. Each man selected has been individually briefed and trained. Within a few hours now, we’ll be in command.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Graham murmured.

  “All right, you can see it,” the girl replied. “Come along with me on my boat, if you like.”

  And he did.

  The warning signal sounded, and the meeting dispersed in confusion—an efficient, highly-organized confusion. For Clare hadn’t lied—each man and woman had a
place and a purpose. Fully a hundred of them manned the dozen tiny vessels that edged out from their mooring-places and into the dark waters of the Gulf. Their movements directed and coordinated by signals from a scanner-system mounted in the lead-ship, they crept away from the shore and fanned out in a broad and sweeping semi-circle some miles distant from the cluster of Keys.

  The night was dark and moonless, and a chill breeze played across the foam-crested waves. Standing at Clare’s side against the rail, Graham stared out at the rolling water. Sky and sea inundated him in immensity.

  For the first time in years—perhaps for the first time in his entire life—he caught a glimpse of true perspective. Once there had been the glory that was Greece, and its galleys had roamed afar, only to vanish beneath the waves. The triremes of mighty Rome had foundered in darkling waters, and in the north the dragon-ships went down to doom. The might of nations—the fleets of France, the armadas of Spain, the galleons of Portugal and the lordly lines of the British man-of-war had vanished in their turn, and so had the proud battleships and the sleek atomic subs of a latter day. For they were only toys and their masters were but children, playing at war and government. They came and vanished, but the waves endured, and the eternal sea claimed them all. Kingdoms and nations drowned, were swallowed up in the sea of history where their passing caused scarcely a ripple.

  Graham thought of all the fine words, the fanciful phrases, the facilely-formulated philosophy he had heard in recent weeks. He knew now that it was without meaning or significance. What was meaningful was the devouring sea, what was significant was the engulfing night around him. And as on the sea, so on the land. All through the ages, all over the surface of the earth, men fought their battles—for king and country, for government and religion—a thousand concepts of right and wrong and truth and justice and freedom. It mattered not to the earth who won or who lost, for in the end earth claimed them all. Victor and victim alike went down into dust in the end, and of their boasts and battle cries, of their creeds and concepts, not an echo remained. And here on the sea, the waters whirled and waited to welcome them in the eternal embrace of oblivion.