The Hidden World: A Golden Age SF Classic

by Stanton A. Coblentz

  Realizing that he was in earnest, I lifted the pellet toward my lips; it had an odor of overripe cheese. And so once more I hesitated.

  "Great caverns! I suppose we'll have to force it down your throat after all!” threatened the official.

  I thrust the Oath into my mouth, but not so easily could I gulp it down. The seconds that followed were among the most miserable of my existence, the Oath of Fidelity caught, and would not go up or down.

  They tell me that my face went blue in the ensuing struggle, and that I sank down and almost fainted. I was aware that Tan Torm was pounding on my back; someone had snatched a tool like a pair of pliers and was forcing the ball down my throat.

  At last, thanks to heroic efforts, the refractory bit of paper went down after all, the reviving air entered my lungs. A minute longer, and the Oath would have killed me.

  As I gradually regained my senses, I saw the professor passing out a bright piece of brass, and heard the ringing of the cash register.

  "Congratulations, young man!” exclaimed Tan Torm heartily, as he led me away. “The Oath of Fidelity pretty nearly didn't take, but I'm glad you swallowed it after all. Now you're a full-fledged citizen!"

  "Oh, am I? And what does that mean?"

  "It means you've promised to obey all the laws of the land. It means you've pledged allegiance to Dictator Thuno Flatum, promised to honor him, obey all his orders unquestioningly, and never utter a word against him. It means you've vowed to live a life of one hundred per cent thoughtlessness. It means, finally, that you have vowed to live in Wu the rest of your days, and promise never to attempt to leave under penalty of death."

  "But I didn't promise anything of the kind!"

  "Indeed you did! Didn't you sign the Oath?"

  "But I didn't understand what it said."

  "That doesn't matter. No one is supposed to understand. Understanding is a sign of thought, and thought is a sign of disloyalty. But you did swallow the Oath, didn't you? That's what makes it legal!"

  * * * *

  Now that I had taken the Oath and become a full-fledged citizen, I was permitted to wander unescorted through many of the streets and side-galleries; yet it seemed to me that I had really less freedom than when confined in the professor's home. I was now officially on the government books, being known as Citizen #44,667,023 XZ, Third Class. I had had my photograph taken and filed with the War Department, my physical measurements recorded and filed with the Police Department, and my toe-prints registered and filed with both the War and Police Departments. I was now to receive an official caller.

  This event occurred on the fifth “wake” after I had swallowed the Oath. I had been practicing the native writing under the tutorship of Loa; and having noticed a light of warning fondness in her salmon eyes, I was pondering some tactful way of escape when I was startled by the entrance of Moa, who informed me that a visitor wished to see me.

  In the next room, a wizened little chalk-face with the features of a fox arose to receive me. “Citizen number 44,667,023 XZ, Third Class?"

  "I believe that is my name,” said I, although I could never remember whether I was an “XZ” or an “XY."

  "I have been detailed to investigate your cases, he declared. “As a sub-agent of the Ministry of Public Unemployment, I do not know why the government has overlooked you so long. I understand, sir, that you have been illegally living in a state of unemployment."

  "Illegally living in a state of unemployment?"

  "So I am told! Do you not realize, sir, that unemployment is a crime? That is to say, in all except First Class citizens, who, in order not to take work from the needy, are paid a salary by the state for being unemployed."

  Fearing that I was about to be punished for my unwitting offense, I remained silent.

  "However, we do not wish to be severe with you,” he conceded, still scowling. “This is, after all, your first dereliction, and I have been instructed to let you off with a reprimand. But we must immediately end your unemployment."

  "Very well,” I assented.

  "What valuable labor can you perform?” asked the chalk-face, taking a chart out of his pocket and withdrawing across the room so as to read through an instrument that looked like a pair of opera glasses. “Fortunately, owing to the unusual turnover of the present war, an exceptional number of positions are vacant just now."

  "Good! What are they?"

  "Well, let's see. There are so many it's hard to know where to begin. Now here's one that might do. In the thought-inoculation department of the army."

  "Thought-inoculation?"

  "Yes; it's necessary to be sure that no private in the army should ever have a thought; otherwise, how could we maintain discipline? It isn't safe to rely on laws only, so we have an anti-thought serum, which acts on the nervous system so as to paralyze the thought centers of the brain. The recruit then has no power left except to obey orders, which makes him an ideal soldier."

  "A very good idea,” I acknowledged.

  "A derivative of the same drug, known as the ‘Muffler,’ is fed by big business firms to employees. However, a job in this department is not for you!” concluded the agent sadly. “You're a barbarian, and what do barbarians know of thought prevention?"

  "More than you think!” I snapped.

  "Now here's another good job,” he went on, still gazing at the chart by means of the opera glasses. “We're in need of spies. The recent turnover in that department..."

  "No, thanks! That's really out of my line!"

  "But think of the honor! No profession is more esteemed! If you survive, you'll be given a high position in the diplomatic corps. And if, on the other hand, you are turned..."

  "I'm not covetous about being turned overt"

  "It's a glorious death—I mean to say, a glorious turnover! However, if you haven't any push or ambition, I suppose we can find you some humbler job. What about a position in the Mulflar Works?"

  "But is that safe?"

  "Safe?” The Unemployment Agent glared at me furiously. “Who cares if it's safe? Of course it isn't! Is anything safe in modern life? It's all a matter of the degree of risk! And besides, the salary is high."

  "I'm not hankering for a high salary."

  "Oh, well, if you're that impractical, of course we can fix you up! There's never much demand for low-paying jobs."

  Again he stared at the chart, and, after a moment of indecision, suggested, “Let's see now, we might make you valet to a First Class citizen. The wages are not very good, but the work is easy. All you would have to do would be to dust off your master's eye-tubes, or hold his megaphone to his mouth when he speaks. You might adjust his breathing tubes when they get out of order, or arrange his mirrors, or merely stand in his reception hall and look stiff and official when he receives visitors. And whenever he kicks or cuffs you, or calls you names, you would have to bow respectfully and say, ‘Thank you, sir!’ What do you say?"

  "Haven't you anything else?” I asked, in desperation.

  The agent scowled again. “You're a hard man to suit! I really don't know what else to offer you. We might place you in the Department of Public Unenlightenment, whose business it is to keep the public from knowing too much. But no! Third Class Citizens are not eligible"

  Once more, he paused, his long black-draped fingers tapping at his knees. At last, with a shout of triumph, he exclaimed, “Ah! now I have it! The very job for you! I congratulate you, young man! You're a lucky individual! A very lucky individual!"

  "How so?"

  "We need more office help for the Ventilation Company. Too many of its employees have volunteered for the war, and have been turned over. So they have a job just waiting for you in the air supply division. You begin tomorrow."

  "What is the Ventilation Company? And what's the air-supply division?"

  "Take my word, it's just the thing for you! No ability required! No thought necessary! Merely do what you're told! And get paid regularly every five wakes!"

  "But what's
the job like?"

  "You'll find out after you're on it! Time enough to worry then!"

  Immediately upon hearing my assent, the visitor let out a whoop of joy; then, drawing forth a printed sheet and a pencil, he flung them at me, and directed, “There! Sign on the barred line!"

  Hesitantly I did as directed, and the agent thereupon snatched up the paper, folded it into an inner pocket, instructed me where and when to report for work, bowed, and gingerly left. Not until later did I learn that, as a commission for securing me the work, I had signed over to him all my wages for the first fifty-two wakes.

  CHAPTER VIII

  LOA

  The Ventilation Company, as I soon discovered, was the most powerful corporation in Wu. It was literally the breath of the country; for it controlled the fresh-air supply. Owned by a group of First Class Citizens, the Company was declared to number Thuno Flatum himself among its stockholders. It was common gossip that more than one war had been commenced on the decision of the Ventilation officials, and that the current conflict with Zu had been stimulated by them, owing to the fact that the workers had been threatening a strike.

  Whatever I might think of the management, I could easily understand the influence of the Company. The more I observed the vast system of air-tubes and wheels, the more I admired the ingenuity of its creators. I was informed how ventilating pipes, opening in narrow ducts in the Overworld, received a constant supply of the fresh air that always blew in that uninhabitable domain; and I was told how the air, forced downward by mighty pumps, mulflar-powered, was delivered in pipes and conduits to every gallery, chamber, and private residence in Wu. This it was that kept the air always fresh and sweet, and averted those noisome odors usually found in underground passageways.

  My work for the company began humbly enough. Perched on a stone chair behind a stone railing in a large draughty gallery, where a perfect torrent of air was blowing in order to display “ventilating efficiency,” I had to interview customers, hear their complaints, accept the service fees which they paid every twenty wakes, and attempt to sell the various air-machines displayed about the room.

  "Do your cleaning by air"; “Have you tried our automatic air-baths?"; “Air-heating engines—guaranteed for hot air"; “Remove dust and germs; air-filters at reduced rates"; “Air-rays for health—are you sure your children are getting a sufficiency of A, B, and D?"—these were but a few of the signs that I saw scattered about me on a multitude of curious-looking instruments. Some reminded me of electric toasters, others of vacuum cleaners, and a few were like great dynamos.

  Although I still did not know the principles behind these inventions, I was able to sell them easily enough. All I had to do was to look knowing, point to the company's guarantee, and state that the objects were on sale for a limited period only. Prospective customers, particularly if of the gentler or “whiter” sex, were rarely able to resist the lure, even though they understood nothing of the point or purpose of the apparatus they purchased. The sales of articles under such conditions was known as “flumflim,” as a result of which, nine tenths of the population was constantly in debt to the Ventilation Company.

  The other phases of my work were less interesting. I particularly disliked listening to complaints—and what a stream of them there were! Sometimes the line of complainers reached all the way across the office and fifty yards down the adjoining gallery! Here, for example, would come a testy-looking old chalk-face, with a squeaky wall, “My air-service has been very poor of later. Haven't been able to breathe properly for wakes!"

  And after I had promised to send the air-man around to his home to see if his valves were out of order, a querulous young woman, hideous with wrinkles, would exclaim, “See here, young man, Look at this bill! It's plain robbery! The meter must be wrong! We simply couldn't have used that much air!"

  Following her in line would be a miserable-looking old woman, who would gloomily display a printed notice, “If you do not pay your bill within five wakes, we will turn off your air supply...” If you do that, we'll all smother!” she would moan. “You must give us more time to pay!"

  But I would have to inform her that the rules of the company made no exception.

  There were other complaints—complaints from persons whose air supply was too hot; persons whose air supply was too cold; persons whose air supply had been interrupted; persons with an over-supply of air; persons who had ordered Grade X air for the children and received only Grade Y. You would have supposed the entire country to be suffering from air trouble.

  My hours in the Ventilating Office were ten each wake, with one wake out of every five off duty. I was expected to stay half an hour after the office formally closed, in order to clean a great ventilating duct which opened in a corner of the room. I would be obliged to creep into the tube, which was wide enough to admit two men standing abreast, and reach into its dark recesses with a mop, so as to remove all dust and foreign matter. The tube, I was told, connected with the upper Ventilating Corridors, and had to be kept in condition if our product were to remain pure.

  After I had been in the Ventilating Office for twenty or thirty wakes, the monotonous routine of my labors was beginning to lull me into the thoughtlessness which was the ideal of the chalk-faces. I had, in fact, been commended for speaking in that automatic manner, and acting with that vacuity of expression, which betokens an empty mind and an efficient worker; hence I began to fear that I would suffer from softening of the brain if I did not find some way to escape. But was escape possible?

  Discontent with my work, however, was not the only thing urging me to flee. Although now supposedly a wage-earning citizen, I was still living upon the bounty of Professor Tan Torm, since my pay was going to the Unemployment Agent. Even after he had received his share, I should have to pay an Employment Tax to the Government, and a fee for joining the Ventilation Union. After that, I would have to buy war bonds and pay Peace Taxes, Residence Taxes, Food Taxes, Water Taxes, Air Taxes, etc., all of which were imposed in direct ratio to a man's inability to pay. During the first two and a half years, the more I worked the more deeply I would be in debt.

  Now all this would have occasioned me no worry; the natives of Wu consider it a sign of prosperity to be in debt. Besides, Professor Tan Torm, thanks to the profits from his Mulflar stocks, was well able to support me. But what I could not endure was the necessity of living in daily contact with Loa.

  I do not blame the poor girl; for some reason—perhaps not unconnected with the fact that most of the eligible males of her own race had been turned over in the current war—she had succumbed to my attractions. Unfortunately, it had never occurred to her that she was not equally attractive, even though she devoted herself for hours a day to her wrinkling machine, diligently putting new wrinkles into her face, since the old ones did not suffice to win my affection! Then she turned, still hopeful, to a new method, and began adding on flesh by “producing powders,” “producing baths,” a “producing diet,” and other means recommended by the dictators of fashion, or “producticians."

  Now whatever I might have said about Loa's face when I first met her, I had thought her form perfect. Had she but retained her natural form and unwrinkled countenance, I might have become fond of her! But, as it was, she daily grew more hideous in my eyes. And no word or hint of mine could deter her. Fatness, next to wrinkles, was considered the supreme sign of beauty in women.

  Of course, since I had no choice but to remain in the same house with her, I had to be civil; but I thought it the best policy to avoid her as much as possible. Unhappily, I couldn't have done worse. This became evident one day when Professor Tan Torm, pausing in his researches into some dead and buried language, summoned me to his study with an air of importance.

  I noticed, as he motioned me to a seat opposite him, that he seemed actually embarrassed.

  "My dear young man,” he at last confided, rising and coming over to place a fatherly hand on my shoulder, “I have been requested—eh—requested to spe
ak to you by my daughter Loa. For a long time I have been—oh—observing how matters are between you two."

  "Why, I-I have always treated her like a gentleman,” it was on my lips to say. “I have been observing, yes, observing how matters are between you,” he repeated, warming to his subject. “With becoming modesty, you have not made any undue approach. You have kept your feelings to yourself, as was only proper, in view of your Third Class status. You would not insult a Second Class lady by openly declaring yourself. But I have been observing, my dear young man; I have been observing"

  Throughout this speech, I sat gaping at the professor wide-eyed and with loose-hanging jaws.

  "Yes, I have been observing!” he went on. “I have been consulting with Loa, as is only a father's place, and have been assured that she—she reciprocates your feelings."

  "Reciprocates—my feelings?"

  "Yes. It is only natural, young man, that you should be overwhelmed. It isn't every day that a Second Class lady will look at a Third Class suitor. But I have no prejudices in the matter at all, my boy. We're all human, when you come to think of it, even if we can't all be considered equal. Besides, though you're a barbarian by birth, you've recently grown civilized. So, my daughter being willing, I can only give my blessings. May your union be crowned with—"

  But I did not hear the end of the sentence. In an agony of protest, I shot out of my seat so suddenly that my head collided with the projecting steel frame of the Professor's thesaurus, which I had not noticed in my agitation.

  When I came to myself, Loa was bending over me tenderly, tears in her eyes, a bottle of some strong-smelling solution in her hands. And in the background I saw the professor looming, still smiling the same benignant smile. “Poor young man!” I thought I heard him say. “The shock of this happiness was more than he could bear!"

  It was then that I decided upon flight.

  CHAPTER IX

  FLIGHT

  It was what was known to the chalk-faces as the “mid-sleep.” The lights of the public galleries had been dimmed, the lamps of the houses had been extinguished; the ventilating currents turned low. Only an occasional belated wayfarer or military guard, darting through the deserted thoroughfares on his little scoot, gave proof that life still went on in the land of Wu.