I myself had but little interest in the throw-down; my work was fairly easy, my wages were fairly good. Besides, I had had the temerity to consult a historical reference work, and knew that ventilation throw-downs had been occurring at intervals of about thirty years for centuries. In every case, hundreds of thousands of persons had perished as a result of interference with the air supply; while the throw-downers, if they had been able to do a few simple sums in arithmetic, would have found that they had lost more during each interval of idleness than they had gained by the inevitable settlement.
As the time approached for the throw-downers to put their ultimatum into effect, I could see how excited the people were growing. Business had come to a standstill; along avenues once crowded with dashing vehicles, the scoots had almost ceased to run; in every side-gallery I observed little knots of chalk-faces anxiously talking.
"And so you think they will really start a throw-down?” one would ask ... I'm afraid so,” another would reply. “I stored up containers of oxygen months ago, for just such an emergency ... What's the army for? The government has saved our heroic warriors for just this occasion!
Meanwhile the Screamer reported that Dictator Thuno Flatum was still enjoying his fishing expedition. He had caught a seven-ounce minnow by means of a new magnetic fishing reel.
At the beginning of the wake on which the ultimatum expired, I reported for work as usual at the Ventilation Office. To my surprise, the place was almost deserted; only a worn old drudge of a janitress, languidly mopping the floor, greeted me upon my arrival.
"Glorious abysses, young man!” she gasped. “Don't you care about being turned over?"
"Don't I care about being turned over?"
"By Thuno Flatum! you won't last long if those throw-downers find you! They wouldn't do anything to me, for I'm only a useless old woman. But you, sir, they'd sweep the floor with you for not joining the throw-down!"
"Oh, I know how to defend myself!"
"Think so?” she shot out. “Well, then you ought to see what they did to my neighbor, young Mr. Tu Tynn. He was as big and strong a man as you ever saw—took all the prizes in games and wrestling. Well, he wouldn't join the water workers when they threw down year before last, and—” Abruptly she halted. I saw her staring toward the door, surprise and fear in her eyes.
Wheeling about, I observed half a dozen ugly-looking men entering. On their breasts were prominent banners, reading, “Ventilation Throw-Down—Sub-committee # 116."
With a threatening expression, the newcomers drew near. “We were just looking around to see that no one was working!” said the leader.
"You know, brother, it isn't good for the health to be working nowadays."
Steadily I eyed the man, and deliberately drew a step nearer.
"I give you a fair chance, brother,” he growled, “if you want to walk out of here without being turned over—"
Suddenly I had resolved on my course. Striding forward before the man could finish his sentence, I put my full one hundred and seventy pounds into an uppercut that caught him squarely on the chin and sent him reeling.
As he fell, I followed up my advantage. Being now within arm's length of his companions, I began to rain blow upon blow, which, because of their defective vision for things close at hand, they were unable to guard against. In less time than it takes to recount, three of the men had followed their leader to the floor. The remaining two rushed off in a panic.
With admiration and wonder, the scrubwoman stared at me as I returned from the encounter.
"Great caverns! If only Tu Tynn, could have fought like that!” she sighed. “I would advise you to look out, sir. They'll see that you're turned over, if they have to bring out a whole throw-down brigade."
"Let them do their worst!” I snorted. And I sat down, crossed my legs, and awaited developments.
Less than twenty minutes later, a second Throw-Down Subcommittee arrived. Its members were eight in number, and their swaggering hostility was such that I had no difficulty in repeating my previous tactics. Before they realized what I was about, I had gotten too close for them to see clearly; and I aimed my blows so accurately that, in less than a minute, half the gang lay stretched upon the floor. The others, not quite realizing what had struck them, were quick about resorting to that discretion which most men prefer to valor. Dashing to the door, they leapt upon their scoots and darted away.
I returned to my seat in the Ventilation Office and quietly awaited the next development.
Not being good at presaging the future, I could not have known how the news of my exploit was to spread. As luck would have it, a reporter for the Blare happened to be outside. He had no hesitation about accepting the word of onlookers who knew as little about the affair as he did. Consequently, he radioed his paper a story that appeared in red ink all over the front page, while the other news items were driven to footnotes on back pages.
This article, which is too long to repeat in its entirety, was to the effect that a regiment of “anti-throw-down men” had appeared—no one knew where from—under the leadership of a redoubtable giant capable of turning over any adversary at a blow.
Now the speed of the papers of Wu in printing the news is phenomenal; a matter of only minutes need elapse between the occurrence of an event and its appearance in print. In fact, the Screamer, in a special “raid,” as the natives call it, once announced the death of a high official—and printed his obituary—seventeen minutes before he actually expired.
Hence it is not surprising that, less than half an hour after I had routed the second Subcommittee, papers telling of the exploit were being flaunted in all the main galleries by the newsgirls (there were no newsboys, all the boys having gone to war). The Blare, like all the other papers, was owned by a group of First Class citizens, and therefore was profoundly eager to play up any account unfavorable to the throw-downers.
Even so, the article's effect would not have been possible had it not been for one weakness of the people of Wu. In most ways, they are not a credulous folk—indeed, you may show them a plain fact ninety-nine ways without convincing them; but when a statement is in print, they consider it to be beyond challenge. It would never occur to them to question any statement once it has been subjected to the sacred art of typography. As a consequence, the rumor of my prowess, once it had attained the dignity of a place in the Blare, had taken on the sanctity of established knowledge.
In view of the fact that the circulation of the Blare was somewhere in the millions (it was compulsory reading for all persons with a mental age of twelve or under), not an hour had passed before I, along with my imagined regiment of supporters, had become a subject of discussion for all Wu. And the effect upon the throw-downers may be imagined. The members of the Central Throw-Down Committee began to fear that their movement would collapse.
It was only about two hours after the little episode between myself and the second Throw-Down Committee; and I was lounging in my chair in the Ventilation Office, finding things becoming just a little boresome. The heavy air, growing hot and foul now that the ventilation had been turned off, was telling upon my nerves. I would have welcomed the appearance of another Subcommittee!
But no Subcommittee called. Evidently none could be found to meet me face to face! Instead, I was startled to hear a rattling sound in a pneumatic tube just to my right, and to note the arrival of a letter in a little steel container:
TO WHOMEVER IT MAY CONCERN: But most of all, to the anti-throw-downer who has been decimating our men with an army corps of hired thugs,
We extend our greetings, and suggest that you immediately withdraw with your horde of brigands.
If you do not see fit to comply with this recommendation before the close of the present wake, and to surrender your arms and position, we shall make a complete turnover of you and your ruffians.
Yours, With many remembrances of the day,
THE CENTRAL THROW-DOWN
COMMITTEE
(By order of th
e Grand Commander of the Brass Legion of Wu)
I must confess that I read these words not without a shudder. The members of the Brass Legion had had long experience in crime. It seemed possible that they would make good their threat—perhaps by means of Mulflar—and speedily “turn me over."
However, I had gone too far to retreat. After thinking the matter over for a few minutes, I came to the conclusion that, as I had little actual power, my only hope lay in a good old-fashioned bluff.
And so I wrote the following message:
TO THE CENTRAL THROW-DOWN COMMITTEE—
I thank you for your respected communication, and for your greetings, which I return herewith.
I beg leave to inform you that I have no intention of withdrawing with my host of patriotic followers. I suggest, for my part, that you send in peace terms and settle the Ventilation Throw-Down immediately.
Should you not do so, I shall lose no time about giving proper manifestation of my wrath.
Yours, with the utmost courtesy,
HIGH CHIEF COMMANDER
CITIZENS’ ANTI-THROW-DOWN LEAGUE
Having awarded myself this title as a final stroke, I dispatched the letter through a pneumatic tube.
CHAPTER XV
TO DREAM UPON THE THRONE ...
In spite of throw-downs and minor catastrophes, the war between Wu and Zu was still being waged. Of late, however, it had grown dull; except for the periodic capture and recapture of a few square yards, and the daily turnover of several thousand men on each side, nothing was happening.
Nevertheless, Zu had not forgotten that they were still fighting; and when they heard of the ventilation trouble in Wu, they vowed to take advantage of the opportunity. In order to accomplish this end, they resorted to the Subterrains, those formidable machines which bored underground and attacked by means of Mulflar torpedoes.
The result was that, on the day the throw-down was officially declared, half a dozen Subterrain assaults were launched throughout Wu; the turnover, according to treaty, was limited to Second and Third Class citizens. But the facts were not known until long afterwards, and then only imperfectly; hence the explosion that wrecked the headquarters of the Central Throw-Down Committee was not generally ascribed to its actual source.
The Head of the Committee was known to have received my letter of defiance, and had just called his secretary to dictate an order which would end my revolt once for all, when suddenly the earth rose beneath his feet. He and a corps of his assailants were turned over in a disaster that left their offices a charred heap of ruins.
Naturally, the Blare and the Screamer were delighted to report the tragedy; and having already learned of my letter to the Committee, the editors of both journals concluded that the occasion called for another “Extra-extra.” The position taken by the two editors was identical: that the blow had been struck by the “Citizens’ Anti-Throw-Down Committee,” whose “High Chief Commander” was fulfilling his promise to give a “manifestation of his wrath."
Actually, the attack upon the headquarters of the Central Committee would have ended the throw-down in any event. Deprived of their leaders, the throw-downers would have been disorganized; and disorganization would have led to the collapse of the whole movement. But no one even thought of disagreeing with the Blare and the Screamer, which gave me the entire credit for the accomplishment. Not half a dozen hours after the Subterrain attack, the throw-down was officially over.
Even while the throw-down was being settled, I received a visit from a distinguished delegation. I was still seated in the Ventilation Office, gnawing at a lunch of concentrated food capsules and amusing myself by reading the Screamer's story of my alleged exploits, when the blast of a whistle at the door made me leap up.
Riding toward me on scoots decorated with green and vermilion, and surrounded by dozens of mincing lackeys, were three chalk-faces whose shriveled forms, profuse adornments, and artificial eyes, ears and breathing apparatus proclaimed them to be First Class citizens.
In accordance with the requirements of good form, I bowed low, sweeping the floor with the palm of my hand as a sign of deference; but without acknowledging my bow, one of the First Class men lifted a megaphone to his mouth and addressed me abruptly, as was deemed only proper in the presence of a menial:
"Tell me, sir, are you the High Chief Commander of the Citizens’ Anti-Throw-Down Committee?"
I mumbled in the affirmative.
The entire procession had come to a halt at a distance of about twenty feet, and I could see how the three First Class citizens were turning their telescope-like eyepieces in my direction.
"You have done a noble service in the cause of your country and the First Class,” continued my interlocutor. “I shall not question you too minutely on your methods, lest they prove, well, shall we say in violation of the letter of the Criminal Code? Allow me to introduce myself, sir, as the thirteenth Vice-Executive Director of the Ventilation Company."
Once more I bowed low, taking care to sweep the floor with the palm of one hand.
"And I,” testified the second First Class man, also through a megaphone, “I am one of the seventeen Political Settlers of the Ventilation Company.
"Political Settlers?"
"Yes, indeed!” stated the man, looking a little offended at my ignorance. “Very important work we do, too! It is our business to settle things with politicians and political job sellers."
"And I, sir,” the third of my First Class visitors informed me with a blare of his megaphone, “I am the Senatorial Representative of the Ventilation Company."
"Senatorial what?"
"Senatorial Representative. The delegate elected by the Ventilation Company, in accordance with law, to represent its interests in the Senate. Don't you know, sir, that every concern doing a business of more than eleven million annually is entitled to have a representative in the Senate?"
"And to what, gentlemen, do I owe the honor of this visit?"
It was the thirteenth Vice-Executive Director who undertook to reply:
"You may well ask that question, sir. Not once in ten thousand wakes is a Third Class citizen, such as you appear to be, flattered with a visit from the First Class. But your case, sir, is exceptional. Owing to your unusual services on behalf of the Anti-Throw-Downers, we have been appointed by the Directors of the Ventilation Company as a committee of three to express our personal approval and appreciation."
"I thank you, gentlemen,” said I, once more bowing low, but wondering if the visitors had gone through all this hocus-pocus merely in order to express an empty commendation.
"You are the sort of man, sir, that we like to have in our employ,” announced the Political Settler. “Your talents are being wasted, thrown away here in this Third Class office. We have decided to elevate you to a more worthy post."
"Yes, sir,” the Senatorial Representative took up the report, “we will appoint you to the Engineering Department. As Ventilating Engineer, you will have charge of two thousand employees, who will be subject to your orders in all things!"
This time, when I bowed to the floor, it was as an expression of sincere gratitude.
"There is only one difficulty,” the thirteenth Vice-Executive Director bewailed, shaking his head ruefully. “The law forbids appointment to the Engineering Department of anyone except a First or Second Class citizen."
"Well, after all, I don't insist on staying Third Class!"
The Political Settler beamed upon me, and drew his eyepieces a little closer against his wizened face. “Just what I was thinking!” he declared. “I knew you wouldn't insist on staying Third Class. By Thuno Flatum! When there's a politician, there's a way, as the ancient saying goes. The law distinctly says that no Third Class citizen shall ever become Second Class; but we'll prove to the courts that you really were Second Class all along. Leave that to me, sir, as a Political Settler, that's my specialty."
I bowed gratefully once more, and assured the man that I had always felt mispla
ced in the Third Class.
But even as I spoke, a new doubt overcame me. Perhaps there was some hidden flaw in the offer! Perhaps I should have to pay a heavy fee for being made Second Class, or should be taxed beyond my capacity! And so I promptly put some questions on these points.
If it had been possible for First Class citizens to laugh, my hearers would surely have done so. As it was, a sound like a dry rattle issued from their thin lips.
"Pay a tax for being made Second Class?” growled the Senatorial Representative. “Great caverns! Quite the contrary! My colleagues and I have taken care of that. Why, sir, you will get a refund for the taxes you paid in the Third Class!"
"How can that be?"
"It's very simple. Taxation, as all authorities agree, should be placed where it bears least heavily. Now there are ten times as many Third Class citizens as First and Second class combined, so naturally they are much more able to bear the weight of taxation. Therefore all taxes are placed on the Third Class."
Now I had not always admired the logic of the chalk-faces; but on this occasion, it seemed to me that there was something to be said for their reasoning.
"Only one thing more!” continued the Political Settler. “There's the matter of your salary. Considering that you won't have any more taxes to pay, I trust you will find it sufficient to have your present remuneration quadrupled."
For a moment I stood gaping at my benefactor, wondering if he were trying to make sport of me.
"Well, sir, I don't blame you for being in doubt,” sympathized the thirteenth Vice-Executive Director. “After all, you should really get more than that, in order to keep up your Second Class position. I'll speak to the other Directors and see if they can't do something better for you. Perhaps they'll consent to voting you an annual bonus, also tax-free. Meanwhile, you may report for work the wake after next."
The Hidden World: A Golden Age SF Classic Page 10