“All the exultation was deliberately taken out of wars,” said Durant wistfully. “Hitler had color, that’s why he attracted millions. But Russian Communism and British Communism brought drabness to war. Took all the joy and the gaiety and glory out of it. That’s because they pulled the masses, themselves, into conflict.” He smiled at Dr. Healy boyishly. “Why not reintroduce glamour into war, Doctor? Why not some wonderful marching bands, and millions of flags with tassels, and bright-colored uniforms, and drums and fifes and bugles and dancing in the street?”
Dr. Healy looked offended at this barbarism. “We live in a modern world, Major. The people know that war isn’t a fiesta. They have a sense of responsibility. We must cultivate this sense to the extreme, if we are to succeed in this new war effort, without domestic upheavals such as we had in the last war. The people must feel they participate.”
“I know!” said Durant, in a happy voice. “‘Age groups!’ ‘Integration!’ ‘Working closely together with!’ ‘Sense of belonging!’ ‘Identification with the mass!’ I told you, Doctor, I know all the terms!”
“So you do, Major,” said Dr. Healy, with a patronizing smirk. He had this military robot now.
“‘Creativeness!’ ‘Maturity!’ ‘Complete adjustment to environment!’”
“Quite so,” murmured Dr. Healy.
Durant sat back in his chair and beamed. Dr. Healy beamed also. Then again, he saw Durant’s eyes. He half rose from his chair. “What’s the matter, Doctor?” asked Durant softly.
“Nothing,” said Dr. Healy. He almost stammered. He lowered himself in his chair and stared at Durant, as if fascinated.
Durant leaned his chin dreamily on his palm and looked into space. “I’m just remembering what Rauschning said: ‘Wherever the typical mass character becomes universal, all higher values are as good as lost.’ What do you think of that, Doctor?”
Dr. Healy was silent, but his eyes narrowed on Durant. Then as Durant glanced at him ingenuously for a reply, he said: “The modern world cannot exist without a ‘typical mass character,’ Major. The world is now too complex for individuality.”
“Except for a few, eh?” Durant waited; the doctor did not answer. “No matter what the system, there are always exceptions, aren’t there? We cultivate the exceptions, don’t we? We call them the ‘leaders.’”
“Yes.”
“By pure coincidence, of course, these new young ‘leaders’ are always drawn from our military hierarchy, the MASTS, the farmers, the bureaucrats. These children don’t go to Federal schools. They have private schools of their own, where their ‘individuality’ is cultivated in behalf of the Government. Excellent, isn’t it?”
“Are you quarreling with our system, Major?” Dr. Healy leaned forward.
“‘Our system?’” Durant raised his eyebrows in intense surprise. “Did we, the Military, who rule this country, establish such a system, Doctor? Or did you, and your kind? For your own purposes?”
The officers drew closer to Durant’s desk, and Dr. Healy, the intuitive, felt their gigantic hostility, their detestation, their contempt for him as a civilian. He shrank in his excellent clothing.
Durant struck his desk with his fist. “Who established those schools for the privileged children, Doctor?”
“We—we pay for them. The Government is not put to any expense, Major! The Government approves.”
“The Government? Dr. Healy, we, the Military, are the Government. You are not. We are the power of The Democracy. You are nothing.” Durant’s eyes blazed on the doctor. “Dr. Healy, when I was sent here, I was given absolute power. We, the Military, are resuming, with full force, the power which we have allowed to drain away in the last two or three years. I am master here, Dr. Healy. And so, I now issue this directive: All private schools in Section 7 are to be closed within two days, the teachers disbanded for more important work in the defense effort. All the children in those schools are to be sent to the Federal schools, to be indoctrinated in the precepts of The Democracy.”
Dr. Healy jumped to his feet. “Impossible!” he exclaimed incredulously.
“Impossible?” Durant’s voice was low and deadly. “Are you, a mere civilian, under my jurisdiction, under the jurisdiction of the Military, telling me that anything is impossible which I decree?” Dr. Healy lost his head. He cried: “You must consider, Major! Where shall we get our leaders, if we don’t train them in our private schools? Major Curtiss, do you think for a moment that the parents of these children will stand for this? They’ll—they’ll—”
“They’ll what?” Durant stood up also, and he seemed to tower in rage above the psychiatrist. “They’ll appeal to Washington!”
Durant regarded him disbelievingly. “To whom? To what? To my military superiors, who have given me full power? To the Chief Magistrate of Section 7, who has told me to do what seems wise, and who has delegated all authority to me? Dr. Healy, you sound distinctly subversive. Are you defying the Military? Are you telling me that you, a mere employee of mine, are challenging me?” He turned to Bishop and Edwards. “You’ve heard this man. He is questioning the authority of the Military.”
Dr. Healy was terribly frightened. He flung out his hands. “Major,” he pleaded, after a glance at the circle of grim faces behind Durant. “You are inferring things which I did not imply. It—it has been the custom not to send privileged children of privileged groups to the Federal schools, where there is only mass indoctrination and little education—”
Durant roared: “Are you saying that our schools, our wonderful Federal schools, are institutes to create mindless animals? Are you insulting our noble schools, which teach children the truth about The Democracy?”
Frantic, now, all his assurance gone, all his body shaking as he had made others shake, all his faculties stricken with terror, as he had terrorized others, Dr. Healy fell back from the desk. The salt dryness of fear was in his mouth.
“You have been depriving these so-called ‘privileged’ children of the privilege of honest education in our Federal schools, Doctor. Unity! Duty! Sacrifice! Discipline! These things the ‘privileged’ children must learn at once. You have heard me. If one of your private schools exists two days from now, you and your subordinates will be arrested at once.”
Durant sat down. He did not have to act now. All his rage showed on his face, all his hatred and repulsion. Dr. Healy stood before him, shattered and trembling.
“Notify all the schools in this Section of my directive. And close the doors of your special schools for your special children day after tomorrow. And see to it that the children are immediately enrolled in the Federal schools, with proper ration cards for meals, and the prevailing uniforms. If any of the parents rebel, I hereby order you to report them at once to me.”
Durant turned to Keiser. “Show the doctor to the door, Sergeant.”
Dr. Healy hesitated, visibly stricken. “Major—”
Durant looked at him long and hard. “Dr. Healy, get the hell out of here before I arrest you.”
“I—I meant nothing, Major, please! I was merely trying to explain—”
Durant considered him. This suave, this superior individual, this urbane and sadistic wretch! There he stood, quaking in his boots, as he had made saner and more honest and more decent men quake. He stood in the fear of death, as a fox or a rat or a dog might stand, and his face was like milk. Durant made an abrupt gesture. Keiser took Dr. Healy’s arm in a rough grip.
“Don’t, please!” cried Dr. Healy. And he turned, half staggering, and ran from the room.
An atmosphere of happy congeniality pervaded the office upon the discomfited exit of Dr. Healy. Even young Grandon relaxed his features in a pleased expression, and joined in the general laughter. In spite of his efforts he could make his voice only moderately cold and surly when he announced that a very important bureaucrat was next on the list for an interview and to present his respects. He briefed Durant on the man and his background.
“Andreas Zimmer is not
only Assistant Director in the BML of Section 7—”
“Wait,” interrupted Durant. “Remember—I’m just a one-syllable man and I know nothing of the present exotic alphabets. What the hell is BML?”
Grandon thought this remark somewhat puerile, as indeed Durant immediately admitted it was. “Just warming up for my act,” he explained. “Of course—Bureau of Mobilized Labor.”
“Zimmer, unknown to the Director himself, is also informant to the Army,” went on Grandon. “He reports, secretly and unofficially, to the major in charge of Section 7—you, sir—on any deviation which might take place in his office, and also advises.”
“Advises the Army?”
“Suggests, then.”
Durant leaned back in his chair. “I love bureaucrats,” he said reflectively. “There’s something about them. They’re a special breed. They even have a special smell. As an Army man, myself, I’ve always wanted to get my teeth in a juicy bureaucrat. This man is juicy?”
“He certainly is!” exclaimed Grandon, with fervor and anticipatory glee. “Oh, by the way, Major, as his reports to the officer in charge are always confidential, he will see you alone.” There was regret on the young lieutenant’s face, and regret on the faces of the others, also.
The officers went out of the room, reluctantly, and a civilian entered. Durant studied him with that sharpness developed in him during his years as a Minute Man and as a lawyer. He saw an untidy man in black, of medium height and square figure, the collar of his shirt wrinkled, his black tie askew, his clothing crumpled and unpressed. He had a short, broad neck, and a big square face of a pasty color, and a thick mass of badly cut black hair. His features were pudgy and had an amiable cast, and his smile was friendly. However, his eyes were effectively covered by cloudy, convex glasses. If one did not look at those glasses, one had the impression of an ordinary man of about thirty-five, for there was nothing sinister about his appearance. The typical bureaucrat, Durant had observed, was either anonymous in aspect, beetlelike and brisk, or pompous and imposing and utterly stupid and vicious, depending on whether or not he moved in secret or whether or not it was to his advantage, and his masters’, to seem impressive.
He deposited a thick briefcase on Durant’s desk, without permission, grinned boyishly and shrugged off a rather shabby, too-short and too-skimpy black coat, and tossed it on a chair. Then he extended a somewhat grubby hand. “Major Curtiss!” he said. “Welcome to Philadelphia, and Section7! Glad to see you, sir! I’m sure we’ll work very well together.” He had a pleasant and ingratiating voice, but Durant stared coldly and deliberately at the hand extended, and did not take it for perceptible moments. It was a warm fat hand, with a good-fellowship grasp.
A bastard, thought Durant. A deliberately disarming dog, a treacherous snake, and greedy as hell.
“Sit down, Mr. Zimmer,” said Durant indifferently. But Mr. Zimmer had already seated himself. He now beamed expansively at the major. “I work closely with the Army,” he informed Durant. “But the Chief Magistrate probably has told you about me.”
Durant said nothing.
If the man was intimidated by his reception he did not show it. He sat in his chair confidently. He must have browbeaten poor old Major Burnes with his boyish friendliness and hinted treachery and power, thought Durant. He has the air of someone who has been indulged and who has inflicted pain and death. Nothing else would give him that look of assurance. Durant, thinking this, smelled danger.
“In the main,” said Andreas Zimmer, “I’ve come merely to present my respects. I hope you’ll be very happy in Philadelphia, Major, and if there is anything I can do, personally—”
“You’re Assistant Director of the Bureau of Mobilized Labor in Section 7, aren’t you?” asked Durant slowly. “Who is the Director?”
The friendly smile congealed momentarily. “Oh, the Director? Mr. Franklin Woolcott. A very busy man, Major. And, confidentially, he knows nothing of my affiliation with the Military. But you probably know that. He knows, of course, that I, in my regular duties, work—”
“—closely with,” said Durant, repeating the loathsome phrase without inflection. However, he soon understood the measure of this man, for there was a fugitive gleam behind those concealing lenses.
“Yes,” said Mr. Zimmer. The affable smile tightened along the edges. “Work closely with the Military.”
“In other words, you are practically a spy without portfolio,” remarked Durant.
“A spy, sir?” The other’s face became grave. “I’d hardly call it that. It is in my line of duty to keep the military officer of Section 7 advised, as our Bureau is very important to the welfare of the whole Section.”
Durant picked up a pencil and turned it about in his fingers. “How long has Mr. Woolcott been with the Bureau?”
The disarming smile broadened again. “Only a year, Major. Frankly, I’m more conversant with the work, as I have had this position for six years or more. Mr. Woolcott relies upon me considerably.”
“What have you to report to me today—confidentially, of course,” said Durant.
The man picked up his briefcase at once and opened it cautiously, keeping the papers close to his chest. The typical bureaucratic gesture, thought Durant. “Well, Major, it just happens—and I’m sorry, considering this is your first day on duty—that there is an item of real importance I must report to you.” He carefully fished out a thick manual, and held it up for Durant to see. Manual of the Bureau of Mobilized Labor. “You have this in your office, Major, but perhaps you are not familiar with it. With your permission I’ll read you a section pertinent to my report of today.”
He flicked a few pages, after moistening his thumb. He began to read in the bureaucrat’s careful and unctuous voice:
“‘Section 12, Paragraphs one to six, Page 98:
“‘RS That it shall be the duty of the Commissioner who is the Chief of the Bureau of Mobilized Labor to appoint Directors of Sections.
“‘The duties of the Directors of Sections shall be to enforce the laws, rules and regulations now in force or which may hereafter be passed. That it shall be the duty of Directors of Sections to supervise and have in their possession at all times a complete and full roster of the available labor in their Sections. The Directors shall from time to time make reports to the Commissioner in Washington with reference to any surplus labor, unemployed or unemployable or otherwise unavailable, existing in their Sections which might eventually be eligible for absorption in the Labor Pool.
“‘That from time to time the Directors of Sections shall visit various factories and industries or other places of employment and confer with supervisors, superintendents or employers, of labor, to ascertain their needs and also the spirit of efficiency and morale, and whether or not labor is being used to fullest capacity in the interest of production for defense or for the war effort. The Directors of Sections shall make a full and detailed report in proper and sufficient copies to the Commissioner in Washington on each and every occasion of inspection.
“‘The Directors of Sections can, if, in their opinion an emergency exists, call upon the civilian population, not heretofore mobilized, with the following exceptions:
“‘(a) All those persons essential for the well-being of the MASTS actively engaged in the defense or war efforts in co-operation with The Democracy.
“‘(b) All those persons essential to the well-being of the heads of various Bureaus and Sections and Departments of The Democracy.’”
As a lawyer, Durant was well versed in the circumlocution and double-talk and tortuous language of bureaucracy. It had always enraged him. He composed his face in an expression of an Army man’s total and simple-minded bewilderment.
“Me,” he said. “I’m just an officer. Boiled down, what does that all mean?”
Mr. Zimmer gave him the superior smile of the bureaucrat. “It’s really very simple, Major. Our Bureau supplies conscripted labor. The Directors of Sections report available labor to Washington.
However, they have authority, if they see fit, to conscript it, themselves. The reporting is just for Channels and proper procedure, but the Directors have full power in their own Sections.”
“I see,” interrupted Durant. “‘The proper and sufficient copies’ are just to make work and keep up offices.”
The bland smile disappeared, and Durant saw he had made a serious mistake. There was nothing else to do but look receptively idiotic and attentive.
“I’d say it was to keep all records complete and orderly,” said Zimmer, closing his Manual as if it were his Bible.
“Go on,” said Durant, trying to make his voice as fatuous as possible.
Zimmer rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Durant noticed that the man had not shaved for at least twenty-four hours.
“Now we come to a slight difficulty,” said Zimmer. “You will remember, Major, that certain classes of labor are exempt from conscription into industries engaged in essential work, etc. ‘Essential for the well-being of the MASTS … and the well-being of the heads of various Bureaus and Sections and Departments of The Democracy.’”
Durant had some struggle with himself to preserve a listening neutrality. He failed a little, for his dark eyes began to sparkle vengefully. “In other words, domestic labor such as valets, chauffeurs, butlers, maids, washwomen, gardeners and scrubwomen employed by the MASTS and bureaucrats. Yes, I see. What’s so important and ‘difficult’ about all this?”
Zimmer stiffened portentously. And now when he spoke there was a faintly threatening note in his tone. “It is, indeed, very important and difficult. Because Mr. Woolcott has arbitrarily decided that essential industry should not be deprived of this ‘unavailable’ labor pool, though the Manual distinctly states that this kind of labor is exempt from the labor conscription clauses. He intends to begin active conscription of this labor two weeks from today, and he is in process of preparing the necessary directives.”
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