Los Angeles

by Philip Wylie

  “There were at least twenty. I saw that. And Leandra—your secretary, Miss Smith—used one to order drinks. But I actually didn’t have much time—”

  Bob grinned. “I know.” He saw Glenn’s flush. “Don’t get in a blitzing mood, Glenn! Of course we were paying scientific attention! Too bad you thought of and found our observing equipment when you did!”

  Glenn was angry—what the state meant by “blitzing,” he’d guess. “Perhaps I have no right to privacy, Bob, but, by God, feeling people were looking—and now, you—”

  “Hold it!” The dark, seemingly pleasant man was sharp. Accustomed to command. He meant what he had, virtually, ordered. “We value you, friend. Greatly. We are dissatisfied with the way we use the media currently. We are sure your genius will remedy that trouble, once you understand us and once you take over your enterprises—what’s here, in other cities—and the rest of the non-restricted communication channels and publications. That is one great reason for, well, the welcome you got. But for a while, Glenn we have to observe you. Most of the time, at least.” He threw an arm over Glenn’s shoulder and started to propel him back toward the terrace and the sensational mansion. “For one thing, your heritage—manners, morals and customs—are, to us, attitudes from the distant past.”

  “Forty-six years? That is distant?”

  “Things changed so much, so fast, it could be compared to a couple of centuries, on your scale, Glenn. Suppose you were a sociologist, psychologist, historian, what-not in, say, 1970 and suddenly Lincoln appeared, or George Washington—alive, in their prime by some odd chance we haven’t yet understood. Wouldn’t you have a lot of … experts … who would be utterly determined to, well, study those two, or either one, closely?”

  “I suppose, but …” Glenn shrugged. “I’m merely a businessman. Not a historical personage, hero, great man—”

  “You’ll do.” Bob smiled and patted Glenn’s back.

  Then he heard a husky voice and turned.

  His wife and Leandra had appeared in the modernistic salon. Bob waved and took time to say, “Look fellow. You had certain ethics that no longer exist. Also, sex morals. We’re not entirely satisfied with our own creed. We hope, and some of us feel sure, you can find some flaws there so we can improve—well—public morale, call it.”

  They then joined the ladies.

  Eula Baker was perhaps thirty-two. She had an immense heap of brilliant, dark hair, a smallish but very pretty face and pale eyes, azure. She was plump but graceful. She knew how to use her body every instant for maximum attention-calling and for the utmost sexual declaration. Her voice was one of those throaty, sexy sorts that Glenn thought were heard only on TV commercials, only, so to speak, as the result of endless repetitions of the advertising copy to get the one repeat with the most “come on.” But Eula never had any lesser register.

  They went in for dinner and it was a fine meal, formally served but without formal or matching talk. Glenn felt that Leandra was somewhat quiet, for her, and that she often thought with care before she entered any part of the fast-shifting conversation. Not that she was awed or scared, but just careful. Eula wasn’t. She made it more than clear that she was attracted to Glenn sexually, and also with intent. Bob seemed not to mind, rather, almost to support his somewhat overvoluptuous wife’s pitch.

  When Eula—who had gotten on a first name basis in minutes—began asking Glenn about his “love life” in exceedingly familiar and not acceptable terms, Glenn’s flush amused her. He answered as truly as he thought he should but it didn’t satisfy his hostess.

  “They said you’d be prudish,” she said, rather hotly and when the desert was served. “But that won’t last, I promise! You need a complete reeducation, Glenn! And I plan to help it along!”

  Everybody laughed. Even Leandra. Genuinely.

  Bob said, “That’s been arranged. He’s to spend the next few days looking at our town. Including our educational system.”

  Eula smiled. “Better start him with sex, in kindergarten!”

  It didn’t occur to Glenn she meant that literally.

  After dinner, Eula took Leandra away on some joint and evidently amusing enterprise, though, of course, both women also departed to leave the two men alone.

  And, for two hours, they were alone.

  They were difficult hours for Glenn.

  Bob began with an outline of the Corporation that USA had become. He went on to detail the manner in which it “governed” America.

  “As,” Glenn said, at one point, “a feudal state. Fascists.”

  “Feudal? Fascist?” Bob had to ponder to recall the meaning of one or perhaps both words. “Well, in a way. You see, Glenn, when conditions began to worsen, particularly after the three cold years, I think you—?”

  “Yes.” Grimly said.

  “—the country fell into increasing chaos. Gigantic riots. Political organization at the local and state level came unstuck. The larger industries, businesses—and, of course, the military—had, finally, the only operational bases left. I believe young Americans in your time were unruly. Campus riots? Leftist bombings? That sort of thing?”

  He waited for acknowledgement and went on, “The harder the federal government and the corporations still functional tried to keep order, keep goods and services turned out and distributed, the more violently the young people—that is, perhaps, finally, three quarters of them—battled this hated ‘establishment and system,’ the ‘military-industrial totalitarians’—their terms. Also, the matter of preparing underground habitats became incendiary. The masses refused to think such efforts would ever be useful—boondoggles, they called them. The masses were enraged at the very idea because, clearly, if what they refused to believe would happen, somehow happened, obviously what was being readied or planned underground couldn’t hold a tenth—a fiftieth, maybe fewer—of those living in the final years. Had it not been for heavy industry especially, and the military, which had some solidity, the enraged multitudes would literally have prevented the efforts that were made. If you see?”

  Glen was heartsick. But he could “see,” in a way.

  “There are now sixty cities like L.A.,” Bob went on. “Some are larger. Up to fifty thousand people, now. Many are mere towns—two to five thousand from a start of half that, about, and as a rule. We lost quite a few of them. too. Not ready enough. Unexpected disasters. Lake Erie flooded Cleveland one night, years back. Houston-Dallas lost their regenerators for days, and the people perished. St. Louis suffered a quake—and lost its safe atmosphere, too.”

  Bob knocked on wood, Glenn saw, with surprise.

  “In any event,” the youngish and urbane Mayor went on, “we—that is my forebears and the industrialists and officers and the then-President—with the realiable groups—the professional military divisions and fleets—did the best they could to prepare. The great wind—you saw it?—was unexpected. Sudden. Overwhelming. My parents were lost, though dad was Board Chairman of Western Nuclear Power Conglomerate. This place—not so large as now—wasn’t actually ready—but ready enough. However, the necessity of a strong central goverment had existed for a decade. The Corporation is merely the inevitable result. You’ll find your colleagues on the Board are superb men. Our national motto is ‘Serve!’ We’re dedicated to the recovery of the nation! But that took, takes, and will take for any foreseeable future, rigid laws, rigid enforcement, and the requirement that every citizen permitted to exist is worthy, for the overall aim of the unit. The eugenics—you’ll learn of—and so on. You’re going to find it a great honor, privilege and a tremendous labor, to be one of the Board! I know you’ll serve in a capacity not just needed, because it’s been absent, but with patriotism and pride.”

  It went on and on—that talk.

  Bob plainly assumed that Glenn, as the head of a great corporation, however “ancient,” was, by that fact, the sort of man like those on the current Board. Not free Americans—there was no freedom, there weren’t even elections—but a sort o
f semibenign yet absolute tyrant. A monarch. Born to rule and rule without any humane requirements. A sort of intelligent Hitler with what were regarded, at least, to be “idealistic” aims. And aims carried out with no regard for any individual.

  The longer he listened the more he found he was hating it all. And the greater his hate, the more evident it became that any sign of that must be hidden. Nobody was going to fight the Corporation or even criticize it, and remain a “Useful Person.” Including Glenn. And if one wasn’t that, one—stopped existing.

  Glenn was relieved when Bob suggested they “hunt up the ladies.”

  An elevator took them to the floor above. A few paces down a gold-and-white hallway to a door, one of several, brought them to their quarry. Bob opened the door without knocking, lifted a finger to his lips and, grinning, led Glenn into the most ornate and the most lewdly decorated bedroom he had ever imagined, even, thought to try to imagine. They stole over the layers of carpeting till they stood behind the two ladies who were intently watching a half-life-sized screen as they sat in deeply upholstered, silk-covered chairs and sipped occasionally from tall glasses with a pinkish liquid that had a perfumed smell.

  That was when Glenn found out what the “Registry” meant.

  On the screen, posturing, turning, smiling, and, on command by Eula, often stripping, was shown a series of men! Athletic and white, muscular and black, oriental, young, even a boy or two of fifteen, at most, and also men of maturity. The two silent men watched this spectacle for quite a while, Bob with amusement, Glenn, hoping he didn’t show what he felt.

  It had taken him a little time even to understand.

  The men in the pictures, on screen, were being reviewed for choice. Eula ran the show, talking into some instrument that carried her words to an unseen stage manager or manageress.

  “Not Elman!” Eula would say. “I had him last week and his thing’s short! Really!”

  “No! I’m tired of odd types. Especially Orientals.”

  “Well—is that Bill Sailing?” A voice said it was. “Tell him to peel! Great. Let him get himself a little stimulated.” The man on the screen began to do that. Eula turned to Leandra. “Now, dear, that’s one you can’t possibly resist!”

  “He’s very handsome,” Leandra said, uncomfortably. “But, honestly, Eula, I don’t want or need any of these lovely men—for now.”

  Eula laughed huskily. “Still determined to take our handsome Glennie-boy home? After being shut out?”

  “I—I—well—yes.”

  “I bet you fail to make a goal, again!”

  “I’ll take the chance.”

  At least, Glenn thought, she’s embarrassed.

  He wanted to interrupt this scene but Bob apparently enjoyed it. He shook his head in the dim-lit chamber when Glenn showed signs of interfering. The pictures went on sickeningly. But ultimately Eula said crossly, “Let it go, for the moment! Leandra, here, can’t decide—and I’ll check back for mine later.”

  When Bob then spoke, his wife was entirely unperturbed. Not so, Leandra. As Eula turned on brighter lights, she was flushed crimson. Glenn thought her whole body was probably blushing. And, before any further talking—or games—could be commenced, Glenn took the only course he could bear, firmly and yet very courteously.

  “I’m very tired, Mrs. Baker, Eula, dear. And I promised to take Leandra home, too.”

  Eula didn’t rise. She eyed Glenn with lust and then made it a pretty laugh. “Or vice versa. Very well, you two.”

  A few minutes later they were walking on the now-quiet streets. When they drew near the building in which Glenn had an apartment, he said, rather painfully, “I am tired, Leandra. And that’s the truth.”

  “It isn’t,” she replied softly, “very surprising. So—all right. I’ll go on to my little cave. No need to go with me. Nobody is ever in any danger—anytime—here. Girls alone are safe. They didn’t need to be in your period, I recall. Have a good sleep. But listen, Glenn Howard! Suppose I could arrange for us to have the cameras and stuff shut off, when we want? Okay?”

  His heart bumped his ribs. “Very okay!”

  “Night!”

  Glenn was asleep when Leandra, after a struggle with herself, phoned Bob.

  The instrument showed his face to her, hers to him.

  He said, “No luck?”

  She hook her head, sadly. It took an effort to speak. “None. He’s tired—and no wonder!”

  “Still, you’re … you. Did you ever before fail—?”

  “Not when I was that near. And even half that wanting, too. But I think I may know the trouble.”

  “Yes?” The Mayor was very alert, now.

  “They used to—men in his day—to have their own, well, special types. Some went for redheads. Or blondes—blue-eyed, not brown, like me. Brunettes.”

  “I see!” It sounded as if he didn’t. As if the idea of having a favored “type” of woman had never entered his head—which was true. However, he accepted it as a fact for the man from olden times. It even amused him a little. “You were going to be his guide, the next days—”

  “Yes,” she tried not to sound strangled.

  “Fine. Instead, you’ll arrange for other guides. Varied—types? Right?”

  “Yes.”

  When he cut off, she wept for a long while. It wasn’t like her. It wasn’t even possible before, she thought. But she kept crying. Jealousy, she told herself, doesn’t exist. But that didn’t help. This, she finally thought sadly must be what they used to call “love.” And it was proving very painful. Maybe, she thought, it was well to be rid of it.

  That was no help, either.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CRAVEN NEW WORLD…?

  Glenn had taken a shower, found pajamas of a sort on his bed, remembered to look over his button-panel in order to ask to be waked at seven and, when that was suggested, to order coffee and toast, butter (they had it), and juice (that, too, was available).

  He barely managed to get back to his bedroom and there he was asleep as he collapsed on his very pneumatic bed. Later on, he would realize that he’d been sustained through the long hours of that first, shocking day mainly by drugs, the rest, by his always tremendous stamina. But once he was alone in his own rather handsome apartment, with, so far as he knew, all commitments met, he collapsed. He could have gone on if he’d had to—a thought he pursued a little beyond its glimmering start.

  When or where in his dream he was kissed, he wasn’t sure. But he woke up and was being kissed: lightly, but with a diminishing lightness. The lips were soft, expert, arousing and the scent as well as the sensation, wholly feminine. Glenn was a trained waker-upper. His consciousness arrived with an explosive jolt; but he responded in one of two ways whenever it brought, at the same time, a sense of apprehension. War, business problems, many acts of great peril performed for motives of duty, patriotism and in the service of friends, or for causes, had been his schools in the waking art.

  First, he would decide before acting, whether to open his eyes or not. Now, he decided not. Except, then, for a slight and brief inhalation, an eyelid flicker, he might be asleep, still, to the observer—the kissing girl-woman, presumably. Not Leandra—some other scent, sense.

  There was a question with first priority: where was he? A common, waking quandary. But most persons with that sudden absence of self-location use their eyes to get clues. Glenn simply thought. It wasn’t hard to recall in the past as now; that took little time. Assuming he hadn’t dreamed it all, the remembered situation was enough to make most men leap from bed. He remembered but managed to feign sleep a while longer, forcing his limbs and body to remain limp.

  The kiss became more intense. Fingers began to trace delicately on his chest, then his belly. Sexy fingers. The perfume was faintly astringent, but musky, too; sexy, again. Glenn opened his eyes a slit—not enough to lift his rather long, thick, glinting lashes. Not enough to uncover his eyes for a beholder.

  She was young. She was perhaps
a maid; her dress was a sort of French-maid version of the high-style standard for female garments, but as transparent in the same regions as evening frocks of the A people. The lesser classes weren’t dressed in clothing equally ornamental or equally transparent in the most erotic areas. A room maid in the costume of an A person? Maybe. She was young. She had dark hair and this she wore long, in a waving mist, something new to him in the new city. Her ministrations became increasingly precise.

  He thought he’d better start to wake up—and moaned softly, as a prelude.

  The response was a moan and a passionate one with trimmings that were oral, tender, yet forceful and not in the least maidenly.

  Many men, most, he believed, of his age, in his pristine shape, invariably woke in a condition that was erotically ready. For Glenn, it was merely how you woke up—unless you had had, the night before, enough of lovemaking to last beyond a sleep. The night before—according to the language of Glenn’s body—had been the one so frustrated at Rufe Cooper’s Teakettle, the wall-screen and the Billings lass, Bessie. Forty-six years meant nothing to his muscles, arteries, heart, nerves—an irrelevant detail his brain was able, barely, to accept—pro tem.

  Things had now come near to a point of no return. The lass was moaning, writhing, kissing. Glancing at him, now and then was a pixie face, impish, but now nearly demonic, owing to passion that had to be as real as odd. He saw black eyes, a thin body, small breasts and muscular buttocks as she shifted her position; on fire, this thin elf of a wench, sixteen. She looked delighted, more sure of her conquest and only holding back its finale to tease him, or increase her urgency, or, maybe, to wait for his wakening.

  He almost went on faking sleep.

  Instead, he reached suddenly, grabbed a handful of her abundant, silk-thin tresses and said, “Hey!”

  What happened was surprising. The girl whirled about. She’d shed her easily removed two-piece costume somewhere in her antic and naked, with a great smile breaking like sunshine, she said, “Ah! Monsieur! Bon jour! Je vous baisseriez encore, oui? Je l’adore. Magnifique!”