The food—well, that was rather disappointing. If we hardly found time to say so, it was because we were so busy talking about the other astonishing arrangements. There was very little to eat on the plate, and it had hardly any taste; but somehow it managed to satisfy our hunger. It consisted of a small piece of reddish stuff (some sort of synthetic multipurpose food) which was eaten with the spoon, and three pills. The pills one washed down with the half-pint or so of yellow liquid contained in the cup.
I do not know why I am going into such detail about all this. Probably because my first impressions of the underground arrangements were particularly sharp. It quite often happens that on momentous occasions we pay most careful attention to the least significant facts. This first meal has been preserved in my mind as a memorable event, a sacrament initiating me into this holy of holes—or rather, into this hole of holes.
As soon as we had eaten our meal—which did not take long—and the band had carried our plates and cups into the other slot in the wall, the loudspeaker sounded again. We were ordered to go each to his respective department. The door to each section was clearly marked, and I soon found one saying ‘Push-Button X’. In the course of looking for my door I noticed the inscriptions on some of those which the other men and women were entering: ‘Hospital M’, ‘Administration Ad’, ‘Air Supply AS’. However, I had no time to examine all the doors. Trained to respond alertly, I turned at once into ‘Push-Button X’.
After passing through a narrow corridor, which had one door on each side, I went through another door at the end into what I recognised at once as the Push-Button X Operations Room. There was nothing strange about this room. It was exactly the same as the one back up there in the training camp. I won’t bother to describe it now, because I have already done so elsewhere in the diary.
In the Operations Room there was already another man waiting. He wore a uniform like mine, was of about the same age and build, and seemed somehow familiar—possibly because I had seen him before somewhere, possibly because he seemed to resemble me so much. Before we could say anything the door opened and two more men came in one after the other. I recognised one of them—a fellow-trainee from the PB camp—and the other one appeared to know the man who had been there when I arrived. (I learnt later that they had trained together at another PB camp.)
We had no time to introduce ourselves before a loudspeaker addressed us: “Attention, gentlemen! As you see, you are in the Push-Button X Operations Room. You are collectively and individually responsible for this room. This room must never, repeat never, be left unattended.
“Now, let me introduce you to one another. The gentleman near the door is Push-Button Officer X-117; on his right stands X-137; the officer in the centre of the room is X-127; the fourth is X-107, and he is the first on duty. He will be relieved at 18.00 hours by X-117. However, he must not leave the Operations Room until his relief has actually arrived.
“The others may now retire to their rooms. X-117 and X-137 will occupy the room located on their right as they re-enter the corridor from this room. X-127 will occupy the room on the left-hand side, together with X-107.
“Thank you, gentlemen!”
It seemed that our manœuvres were to be just like the real thing: lodgings near the Operations Room, one man always on duty—a perfect exercise, I thought. At the time it did not enter my head that—well, I found out before very long.
We must have appeared on the viewing screen of the unknown person who had introduced us through the loudspeaker, but the thought did not embarrass me. I shook hands with my comrades-in-buttons, exchanged friendly greetings with my fellow-trainee, X-137, and spoke a few polite words to X-107, the one remaining on duty.
The combined living- and bed-room which I now entered surprised me by its smallness. It looked very much like the tiny cabin I had once seen illustrated in a book on military history, in the days before ships became obsolete as an arm of military operations, along with tanks and aircraft. Of course, it was electronic equipment which had crowded out those old sailors. And I decided it must have been the sheer sweat of building anything down here which accounted for the fact that this bed-living-room was made so small.
A pair of bunks, one above the other, occupied most of the space. There was one ordinary chair and another seat which pulled down on a hinge from the wall if a second person wanted to sit down. There was also a desk which worked on the same principle. Under the lower bunk there were several drawers which, to my surprise, were filled with neatly folded uniforms, shirts, underclothes and so forth. Also some writing materials. A door led into a little bathroom, the equipment of which—an excellent shower, washbasin and toilet—compensated somewhat for the economies of the other room.
After exploring my new quarters I decided I would put my feet up for a while. I still felt excited, but the welter of new experiences had tired me. I took off my jacket and shoes, assigned the lower bunk to my companion and lay down on the top one. There did not seem to be anything else to do, anyway.
I do not know how long I lay there like that because I must have fallen asleep for a time. The next thing I remember is hearing a woman’s voice, the one which had come over the loudspeaker in the dining-room, repeat several times, loudly: “Attention please, attention! Attention please, attention!”
The voice was coming from a loudspeaker built into the ceiling of the room. I had not noticed it before. Lying on the top bunk, I had the sensation that somebody was holding me by the lobe of my ear and shouting into it to make sure I did not miss a word.
“Attention please, attention!” is still ringing in my head. Sometimes when I try to relax, take a warm shower, unharness my thoughts from my daily duties and let them loose on the sunny meadows of my terrestrial past, I suddenly realise that my lips are silently forming words. I speak them out loud, and always they are the same words: “Attention please, attention!”
I was lying wide awake now with my eyes open, ready to take in the message. It was very clear.
“Attention please, attention! This message is addressed to all underground forces on Level 7.
“You have been brought here today to serve as the advance guard of our country, our creed, our way of life. To you men and women on Level 7 is entrusted the operation of the offensive branch of the military machine of our country and its allies.
“You are the defenders of truth and justice. Our infamous and treacherous enemy has gone too far in developing his striking-power. In order to make ourselves safe from surprise attack and capable of retaliation, it is imperative that we protect our protectors, that we secure for our security forces the best possible shelter. That is the reason why you have been brought down to Level 7. From here you will be able to defend our country without the slightest chance of danger to yourselves. From here you will be able to attack without being attacked. To the world above you are invisible, but you hold the destiny of that world beneath the tips of your fingers. A day may come soon when some of you will be commanded to push a button, and your fingers will annihilate the enemy and make the victory ours.
“’Till that day,” the loudspeaker went on, “you will have to serve your country and humanity on Level 7. This a privileged position, and you may feel proud to have been chosen for this duty. Remembering that this is also the safest place on earth, you may feel happy too. Arrangements have been made for every aspect of your well-being. You will have all you need. There is no danger of supplies running short: thanks to modern scientific achievements, we are self-sufficient here on Level 7. You need not worry about your friends and relatives outside. They will be notified that you have been killed in a painless accident and that you left no remains. We regret this, but your disappearance must remain absolutely secret. Down here you will find new friends and create new families.
“All this had to be done the way it was done, and we are happy to announce that Operation Level 7 Down, which brought you here today, was a complete success. Needless to say, there is no way back available
to you; but it will please you to know that neither is there any way for radioactive pollution, should any occur, to find its way down here: the system was hermetically sealed as soon as the last of you had arrived this morning. You are safely cut off from the surface of the earth and from the other six shelter levels. We wish you and ourselves—for we are with you—good luck. Get adjusted to your new environment.
“Let us all get adjusted! Thank you.”
The loudspeaker was silent. I lay on my bunk without moving a finger. I had heard every word of the announcement perfectly clearly, yet I was not as shocked as might have been expected. Maybe the blow was so severe that my feelings were somehow outshocked, pushed beyond the limits of normal reaction. Perhaps we had been given a sedative in our meal. Or it may have been some self-protective mechanism of the mind which worked as a buffer to guard it from the full emotional impact of the message it had intellectually understood.
So there I lay, quite still, knowing what the message had said, and yet perplexed. Was it my lack of reaction which puzzled me? Or was it some aspect of the message which I had not fully understood?
My eyes were wide open, fixed on the loudspeaker, and one sentence was echoing backwards and forwards in my head: “Till that day you will have to serve your country and humanity on Level 7…. Till that day you will have to serve your country and humanity on Level 7…. Till that day…”
Till what day? I began to ask myself. Till the day of victory, of course, as the message said. But what if there were no victory? What if the enemy were victorious?
Well, we stood at least a fifty-fifty chance of winning; probably better. And anyway, fighting soldiers had always had to lose some of their freedom, and had never fought in safer circumstances than those in which I found myself. The announcement had made it clear that Level 7 was the safest place on earth. If war happened, the chances of surviving outside would be nil. I knew quite well what atomic war implied. Even if we were victorious, the damage up on top would be so disastrous and the atomic pollution so widespread that no living creature could exist there. I was very lucky to be on Level 7.
But, my thoughts ran on, what if the war were postponed for five years, ten years, fifteen years? What if the war never happened? Should I have to spend the rest of my life in these dungeons, waiting for the command to press the buttons—a command that might never come?
“Till that day you will have to serve your country and humanity on Level 7.”
Till when? Why didn’t we start the war at once and get it over with. Why wait? I desperately wanted to get out, the sooner the better.
It was then, as I lay there with my eyes still fixed on the loudspeaker, that the full truth of my situation went home like a knife in my back: whatever happened, I was down there for life. Even if we declared war that instant and won it inside a day, I would never be able to go back. The radioactive pollution caused by a full-scale atomic war would be such that the surface of the earth would be uninhabitable for decades. Perhaps for centuries. I would never see it again.
I think I must have intuitively guessed this fact as soon as I heard the words of the announcement. Then I had felt puzzled because I had not worked out the logical steps that led from the words which came over the loudspeaker to the conclusion my mind jumped to. The jump had stunned me, so that I hardly felt anything.
But now I could feel. Now that I had worked out and checked the conclusion to which my guess had carried me, I could begin to appreciate what living down here would mean. I would never see towns again, or green fields. I would never walk down a street again, mixing with a crowd of people. And I would not see any more sunshine.
That was the thought that bothered me most. It made me nearly mad, the idea that I would never see sunshine again. Level 7 was worse than a jail, I thought, because even prisoners walked around a yard now and then, in the sunshine. I wanted to break out, to go up. At that moment I did not care how dangerous life on top might be. I wanted to live there and die there, under the sun, and not to decay slowly down in this miserable hole.
My mind was not coolly analysing the situation now, but boiling with hectic plans for escape. How could I get out? I had to get out. Then I remembered the escalator which moved only one way—down. At the head of it had been the revolving door which allowed no return. And beyond that was the lift-shaft, which must have been sealed off if what the loudspeaker had said was true. Even if I were able to race up those swiftly moving stairs and batter down the door, I would have no way of operating the lift. I could push a button to destroy the world, but there was no button I could push to summon that lift.
My frustration and despair had reached such a pitch that I was finding it impossible to lie still any longer. I had to get up and do something, anything to keep me busy. But what could I do? There were no books to read. I could not write a letter to anyone.
No, but I could write! I remembered the writing materials I had seen in the drawer. (A good psychological move on someone’s part, that was.) I could write just for myself—a sort of diary of thoughts, feelings, impressions, things I did. And one day—who knows?—my diary might be discovered and published on the surface of the earth, up there in the sunshine. Part of me, my spirit, might one day see daylight, might be warmed by the sun!
I knew I was cheating myself. I knew that the chances of my diary’s appearance up on the earth were remote. Even if the sun did shine on it one day, what good was that to me here and now? Still, I liked the illusion. It was comforting, even exciting. So I started writing this diary, and now whenever I sit down to report on another day, I have that same feeling of comfort and excitement.
I shall go on writing this diary as long as I live. For this is the only way in which I can feel the sun.
April 27.
X-127.
MARCH 21
Now I begin to understand the meaning of the problem ‘to be or not to be’. Till now I only thought of being somebody. Earlier today I enjoyed the thrill of becoming a major, of being somebody more exalted than I was yesterday. ‘To be or not to be’ seemed to me a vague, meaningless sort of question, good for philosophers or writers but of no interest to ordinary practical people. ‘I am’ was a simple fact, beyond any dispute just because it was a fact; whereas what I was might have been a problem, one of practical significance, because my rank, my social level, my health, any number of things about me were liable to change.
But the more I think about it, the more this idea of being, pure being, loses its simple form and collects around it other ideas. It begins to mean breathing fresh air, walking in the sunshine, and in the rain too—enjoying the sensation of existence.
Well then, is life down here being—or is it not-being? Is not Level 7 a sort of Hades or Sheol where being is dimmed to half-being, at the best? I can breathe, but is this fresh air? I can walk, but I cannot go for a walk. As for sunshine—I had better forget it. I feel that I feel, but I don’t really—not in the spontaneous way I used to up there.
Am I condemned to half-be for the rest of my life? To half-be a major, to be sure. But I would rather revert to private and be. I would prefer to be an absolute nobody than to half-be what I am.
It is very odd that I had to be brought down into the depths of the earth in order to discover the meaning of half a line of Shakespeare. There must have been a philosopher, a Hamlet lurking in me all the time, and I never suspected it. I did not once ponder about the meaning of being, as long as I was. Now, when my life can hardly qualify as being, I begin to understand….
Understand what? The meaning of being? Nonsense, nobody knows the meaning of that. But now at least I understand the meaninglessness of being somebody. And I realise the significance of being, without knowing what being is. My soul—what is left of it—cries: “To be, to be!”
But the loudspeaker sounds: “Attention please, attention.”
MARCH 22
Today I did my first spell of duty in the PB Operations Room. I shall have to be on duty for a total of
six hours daily, as there are four of us and the room must be attended all round the clock. Nobody could call it hard work, certainly. It gets a bit boring, but you can have music there if you feel like listening. We have it in our rooms as well. Just push the right button, and out the music comes. There are only two programmes—one of light music and one of rather heavier stuff—but they seem inexhaustible. No tune has been played twice yet. It must all be recorded, of course—there is no room for live entertainers down here.
Still, I was about to describe the Operations Room. It is quite small really, though it is huge compared with our bed-living-room. There are only a few instruments in it, all of them familiar to me from my training.
On the wall is a big convex screen, a sort of flattened half-globe of the other side of the world, on which are mapped out the countries of our potential enemy and his satellites. It is lit in such a way that every part of it can be seen clearly by a person on duty in the room. On it are marked the enemy’s points of strategic importance—strategic, not tactical. If push-button war is declared we shall not waste our time attacking points of temporary or local importance. Our blows will go straight to the heart and sinews of enemy territory. No tactical operations could be conducted from Level 7, anyway, and I cannot see any point in having them in a future war at all, unless it takes the ridiculously anachronistic form of limited hostilities.
The screen-map is divided into three zones, separated by thin lines. These zones have been determined by then-distance from our rocket bases. The nearest one is called Zone A, the next one B, and the farthest one C.
There are two chairs in the room, equidistant from the screen and facing it at a convenient angle, one from the right and the other from the left. In front of each chair is a little table, and on each table stands what might be mistaken for a little typewriter or an adding-machine. In fact this gadget is the nucleus of the room and the sole reason for my being down here on Level 7.
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