The Journey of Joenes

by Robert Sheckley

  The following morning, however, he received an official letter sent by special messenger. He was ordered to report to Room 432, East Wing, Portico Building, Washington, D.C., and to do so with the utmost dispatch. The letter was signed by no less a person than John Mudge, Special Assistant to the Services Co-ordination Chief.

  Joenes took immediate leave of his colleagues, gazed for the last time on the green lawns and concrete paths of the University, and boarded the first jet for Washington.

  It was a thrilling moment for Joenes when he arrived in the capital city. He walked down the rose marble streets towards the Portico Building, passing on his way the White House, seat of imperial American power. To his left was the great expanse of the Octagon, built to replace the smaller Pentagon. Beyond that were the Buildings of Congress.

  These buildings were especially stirring to Joenes. For him they were the embodiment of the romance of history. The glory of Old Washington, capital of the Hellenic Confederation before the disastrous Civil War, swam before his eyes. It was as though he could see the world-shaking debate between Pericles, representative of the marble-cutters’ lobby, and Themistocles, the fiery submarine commander. He thought of Cleon, coming here from his home in Arcadian New Hampshire, putting forth his terse ideas about the prosecution of the war. The philosopher Alcibiades had lived here for a time, representing his native city of Louisiana, Xenophon had stood on these steps, and had been given a standing ovation for leading his ten thousand men all the way from the banks of the Yalu to the sanctuary of Pusan.

  The memories crowded thick and fast! Here Thucydides wrote his definitive history of the tragic War Between the States. Hippocrates the Hellenic Surgeon General had conquered yellow fever here; and true to the oath he had devised, had never spoken of it. And here Lycurgus and Solon, the first judges of the Supreme Court, had held their famous debates on the nature of justice.

  These famous men seemed to crowd around him as he crossed Washington’s wide boulevards. Thinking of them, Joenes resolved to do his utmost, and to prove worthy of his ancestors.

  In this ecstatic frame of mind, Joenes arrived at Room 432 of the East Wing of the Portico Building. John Mudge, the Special Assistant, made him welcome without delay. Mudge was kind and affable, unhurried in spite of his huge work load. Joenes learned that Mudge made all policy decisions in the Services Co-ordination Office, since his superior spent his days and nights penning useless petitions for transfer to the Army.

  “Well, Joenes,” Mudge said, “you’ve been assigned to us, and we’re very glad to have you. I think I should explain immediately what this office does. We operate as an inter-Service agency designed to avoid duplication of effort between the semi-autonomous forces of the military. Aside from that, we also serve as an intelligence and information agency for all Service programs, and as a governmental policy planner in the fields of military, psychological, and economic warfare.”

  “That sounds like quite a lot,” Joenes said.

  “It is far too much,” Mudge answered. “And yet, our work is absolutely necessary. Take our primary task of co-ordination between the Services. Only last year, before this office was formed, elements of our Army fought a three-day battle in the deepest jungles of northern Thailand. Imagine their chagrin when the smoke cleared and they found that they had been attacking a strongly entrenched battalion of U.S. Marines! Imagine the effect upon service morale! With our military obligations stretched so thinly across the globe, ana so intricately disposed, we must be forever vigilant against incidents of this kind.”

  Joenes nodded in agreement. Mudge went on to explain the necessity for their other duties.

  “Take intelligence, for example,” Mudge said. “At one time that was the special province of the Central Intelligence Agency. But today, the CIA refuses to release its information, requesting instead that it be given more troops to deal with the problems it uncovers.”

  “Deplorable,” Joenes said.

  “And of course the same holds true in greater degree for Army Intelligence, Navy Intelligence, Air Force Intelligence, Marine Corps Intelligence, Space Corps Intelligence, and all the others. The patriotism of the men of these Services cannot be doubted; but each, having been given the means of waging independent warfare, considers his Service the only one in a position to judge the danger and prosecute the conflict to a conclusion. This state of affairs renders any information on the enemy contradictory and suspect. And this in turn paralyzes the government because it has no reliable information upon which to plan policy.”

  “I had no idea the problem was so severe,” Joenes said.

  “It is severe and insoluble,” Mudge replied. “To my way of thinking, the fault lies in the very size of the governmental organization, which has swollen past all precedent. A scientist friend of mine once told me that an organism that grows beyond its natural size tends to break up into its component parts, eventually to begin the growing process all over again. We have grown too huge, and fragmentation has set in. Yet our growth was a natural consequence of the times, and we cannot allow any breakup to occur as yet. The Cold War is still upon us, and we must patch and mend and hold our Services in some semblance of order and co-operation. We in Coordination must discover the truth about the enemy, present this truth to the government as policy, and induce the Services to act upon this policy. We must persevere until the external danger is past, and then hope to reduce the size of our bureaucracy before the forces of chaos do the job for us.”

  “I think I understand,” Joenes said. “And I am in full accord.”

  “I knew you would be,” Mudge replied. “I knew it from the time I read your dossier and requested your appointment here. I told myself that this man would be a natural co-ordinator, and in spite of many difficulties I had you cleared for government service.”

  “But I thought that was the work of Sean Feinstein,” Joenes said.

  Mudge smiled. “Sean is little more than a figurehead who signs the papers we put in front of him. He is also a first-class patriot, having volunteered for the secret but necessary role of government scapegoat. In Sean’s name we make all dubious, unpopular, or questionable decisions. When they turn out well, the Chiefs take the credit. When they turn out badly, Sean takes the blame. In this way, the usefulness of the Chiefs is not impaired.”

  “It must be very hard on Sean,” Joenes said.

  “Of course it is. But perhaps Sean would not be happy if things were not very hard on him. So a psychologist friend of mine believes. Another psychologist of my acquaintance, of a more mystical turn of mind, believes that Sean Feinstein is fulfilling an obligatory historical function, that he is destined to be a prime mover of men and events, a crucial figure in all histories, and a vital force in the enlightenment of the people; and that for these reasons he is detested and reviled by the populace he serves. But wherever the truth lies, I find Sean an extremely necessary person.”

  “I would like to meet him and shake his hand,” Joenes said.

  “That will not be possible just yet,” Mudge said. “Sean is presently serving a term of solitary confinement upon a diet of bread and water. He was found guilty of stealing 24 atomic howitzers and 187 atomic grenades from the U.S. Army.”

  “Did he actually steal those things?” Joenes asked.

  “Yes. But he did so at our request. We armed a Signal Corps detachment with them, and they succeeded in winning the Battle of Rosy Gulch in southeastern Bolivia. The Signal Corps, I might add, had long requested those weapons in vain.”

  “I am very sorry for Sean,” Joenes said. “What is his sentence?”

  “Death,” said Mudge. “But he will be pardoned. He always is. Sean is too important not to be pardoned.”

  Mudge looked away for a moment, then turned back to Joenes. “Your particular work,” he said, “will be of the utmost importance. We are sending you to Russia on a tour of inspection and analysis. Many such inspections have been made in the past, of course. But either they have been made f
rom the bias of one Service, in which case they are worthless, or they have been made from a Co-ordinated standpoint, in which case they have been marked Top Secret and filed unread in the Top Secret room beneath Fort Knox. I have my chief’s assurance, and I give you mine, that no such fate will befall your report. It will be read and acted upon. We are determined to impose Co-ordination, and anything you say about the enemy will be accepted and utilized. Now, Joenes, you will receive a full clearance, then a briefing, then orders.”

  Mudge took Joenes to Security Division, where a colonel in charge of Phrenology felt his head for suspicious bumps. After that, Joenes ran the gauntlet of government astrologists, card-readers, tea-leaf readers, physiognomists, psychologists, casuists, and computers. At the end he was declared loyal, sane, responsible, trustworthy, reverent, and above all, lucky. On the basis of this he was given a Portmanteau Clearance and allowed to read classified documents.

  We have only a partial list of the papers Joenes read in the grey iron Secrets Room, with two armed guards standing beside him, blindfolded to make sure they would not inadvertently glance at the precious documents. But we know that Joenes read:

  “The Yalta Papers,” which told of the historic meeting between President Roosevelt, Czar Nicholas II, and Emperor Ming. Joenes learned how the fateful decisions made in Yalta affected present-day politics and he learned of the violent opposition to those decisions that was voiced by Don Winslow, the Supreme Naval Commander.

  Next he read, “I Was a Male War Bride,” a devastating expose of unnatural practices in the Armed Services.

  And he also read the following:

  “Little Orphan Annie Meets Wolf Man,” a detailed espionage manual written by one of the most accomplished female spies who ever lived.

  “Tarzan and the Black City,” an extraordinary account of commando activities in Russian-held East Africa.

  “The Cantos,” author unknown, a cryptic statement of the enemy’s monetary and racial theories.

  “Buck Rogers Enters Mungo,” a documentary account of the latest exploit of the Space Corps, illustrated.

  “First Principles,” by Spencer, “The Apocrypha,” author unknown, “The Republic,” by Plato, and “Maleus Malificarum,” jointly authored by Torquemada, Bishop Berkeley, and Harpo Marx. These four works were the soul and spearhead of Communist doctrine, and we can be sure that Joenes read them with great profit.

  Of course he also read “The Playboy of the Western World,” by Immanuel Kant, which was the definitive refutation of the above-mentioned Communist works.

  All of these documents have been lost to us, due to the unfortunate circumstances of their having been written on paper instead of learned by heart. We would give much to know the substance of those works that shaped the brilliant and erratic politics of the times. And we cannot help but ask whether Joenes read the few twentieth-century classics that have come down to our own time. Did he peruse the stirring Boots, cast in enduring bronze. Did he read The Practical Man’s Guide to Real Estate, that monumental fantasy that, almost single-handed, shaped the temper of the twentieth century? Did Joenes ever meet the venerable Robinson Crusoe, his contemporary, greatest of the twentieth-century poets? Did he speak with any of the members of the Swiss Family Robinson, whose sculptures can be seen in many of our museums?

  Alas, Joenes never spoke of these cultural things. Instead, his accounts focus upon matters of far greater concern to his beleaguered age.

  So it was that Joenes, after reading steadily for three days and three-nights, arose and left the grey iron Secrets Room and its blindfolded guards. He was now fully cognizant of the state of the nation and of the world. With high hopes and dire forebodings he opened his orders.

  These orders instructed him to report to Room 18891, Floor 12, Level 6, Wing 63, Subsection AJB2, of the Octagon. With the orders was a map to aid him find his way around the massive structure. When he should reach Room 18891, a high Octagon official known only as Mr. M. would give him his final instructions and arrange his departure on a special jet for Russia.

  Joenes’s heart filled with joy when he read these orders, for at last he had a chance to play a part in great affairs. He rushed off to the Octagon to receive his final instructions and be off. But the duty Joenes wished to perform was not so easily captured.

  XI

  THE OCTAGON ADVENTURES

  (The Octagon Adventures and the four stories that comprise it are told by Maubingi of Tahiti)

  Afire with anticipation, Joenes entered the Octagon. He stared around him for a moment, never having imagined that so enormous and majestic a building could exist. Then, recovering, he walked swiftly down great halls and corridors, up stairways, through bypasses, across lobbies, and down more corridors.

  By the time his first flush of enthusiasm had worn off, he was able to see that his map was hopelessly incorrect, for its various designations bore no reference to anything he saw around him. It seemed, in fact, to be a map of another building. Joenes was now deep in the heart of the Octagon, unsure of the way that lay ahead, dubious of his ability to retrace his footsteps. Therefore he put the map in his pocket and decided to ask advice of the first person he met.

  Soon he overtook a man walking down the corridor. This man wore the uniform of a colonel in the Cartography Department, and his bearing was kindly and distinguished.

  Joenes stopped the colonel, explaining that he was lost and that his map seemed to be useless.

  The colonel glanced at Joenes’s map and said: “Oh, yes, that s perfectly in order. This map is our Octagon Series A443-321B, which my office published only last week.”

  “But it doesn’t tell me anything,” Joenes said.

  “You’re damned right it doesn’t,” the colonel answered proudly. “Do you have any idea how important this building is? Did you know that every top government agency, including the most secret ones, are housed here?”

  “I know that the building is very important,” Joenes said. “But—”

  “Then you can understand the position we would be in,” the colonel went on, “if our enemies really understood the building and its offices. Spies would infiltrate these corridors. Disguised as soldiers and congressmen, they would have access to our most vital information. No security measures could hope to restrain a cunning and determined spy armed with information like that. We would be lost, my dear sir, utterly lost. But a map like this, which is most confusing to a spy, is one of our most important safeguards.”

  “I suppose it is,” Joenes said politely.

  The colonel of Cartography touched Joenes’s map lovingly and said, “You have no idea how difficult it is to make such a map.”

  “Really?” Joenes said. “I would have thought it quite simple to construct a map of an imaginary place.”

  “The layman always thinks that. Only a fellow mapmaker, or a spy, could appreciate our problems. To construct a map that tells nothing and yet seems true, giving even an expert the sensation of verisimilitude—that, my friend, requires art of the highest order!”

  “I’m sure it does,” Joenes said. “But why do you bother making a false map at all?”

  “For the sake of security,” the colonel said. “But to understand that, you must know how a spy thinks when he gets a map like this; then you would see how this map strikes directly at the spy’s greatest weakness, rendering him more ineffectual than no map at all would do. And to understand all that, you must comprehend the mentality of a spy.”

  Joenes admitted that he was bewildered by this explanation. But the colonel said it was merely a matter of understanding the nature of a spy. And to illustrate this nature, he then told Joenes a story about a spy, and how he behaved when he was in possession of the map.

  THE STORY OF THE SPY

  The spy (said the colonel) has overcome all previous obstacles. Armed with the precious map, he has penetrated deep into the building. Now he tries to use the map, and sees at once that it doesn’t represent the thing he seeks. But he al
so sees that the map is beautifully made and expensively printed on government paper; it bears a government serial number and a countersigned stamp of approval. It is a clear, lucid map, a triumph of the mapmaker’s skill. Does the spy throw it away and attempt to draw the bewildering complexities around him on a wretched little pocket pad, using only a ball-point pen that doesn’t work very well? He most assuredly does not. Even though ultimate success might lie in that direction, our spy is only human. He does not wish to match his puny ability at visualizing, abstracting, drawing and generalizing, against experts in the field. It would take the highest courage and self-confidence for him to throw away this magnificent map and proceed with nothing but his senses to guide him. If he had the necessary qualities to do that, he would never have been a spy in the first place. He would have been a leader of men, or perhaps a great artist or scientist. But he is none of these things; he is a spy; which is to say, a man who has chosen to find out about things rather than to do things, and to discover what others know rather than to search for what he knows. Necessarily he assumes the existence of truths external to himself, since no real spy could believe that his lifework was to discover frivolous falsehoods.

  This is all very important when we consider the character of any spy, and especially of the spy who has stolen a government map and penetrated deep into this closely guarded building.

  I think we might fairly well call this spy both genuine and excellent, and imbued with extraordinary dedication, cunning, and perseverance. These qualities have brought him past all dangers to a place of vantage within the building. But these very qualities also tend to shape his thoughts, making certain actions possible and others not. So we must realize that the better he is at his work, the more superb his guile, the stronger his dedication, the longer his experience, the greater his patience, then the less able he is to put aside these virtues, throw away the map, take a pen and blank paper in hand, and scribble down what he sees. Perhaps the idea of discarding an official government map sounds simple to you; but the spy finds this concept distasteful, foreign, repugnant, and utterly alien to his genius.