MAY 25
P is rather worried about me. She thinks my preoccupation with the other levels is not good for me. I am enjoying this hobby too much, she says, and it may end in mental depression—the sort I have had before. (By now she knows a little more about me, because she is my wife—if I may call her that—or because she is a psychologist. Or maybe because she is both.)
She thinks my keen interest in other levels is a symptom of emotional instability. Today she was going on about different levels of consciousness, symbolism and what not. I really do not care. If something wants to take hold of my mind, I let it.
In any case, the ‘Know Other Levels’ series ended today with a talk about the preparations on the surface—Level 0, the speaker called it, and I suppose the term was convenient for his purpose, though of course the surface is not a real level at all.
Up there they have been getting everything organised for a general descent, which must take place quickly but smoothly and without fuss at a moment’s notice. As the operation involves—in principle, at least—the entire population, its efficiency is of primary importance.
The speaker said that many people have already been issued with identity badges bearing their names, levels and shelter numbers, which they wear pinned to their chests. The rest are anxiously awaiting their badges.
“There is some ill-feeling among people who assume that segregation into different levels means social discrimination,” said the speaker, “but it stays within reasonable bounds.” Apparently people have a vague idea that Level 5 is better than Level 4, Level 4 better than Level 3, and so on; but they do not know exactly what the difference is. Most of them imagine it is a matter of convenience and luxury, not of safety. Up there the information we have been given in our daily talks is top secret.
Most of the hostility—and it is mixed with anxiety—comes from people who do not yet possess an identity badge and shelter number, which will act as a sort of passport to the underground. The hostility is directed, naturally enough, at those who have already been given their badges. This is tending to split the nation into two opposed groups—a new kind of division between the haves and the have-nots. However, the dangers of this ill-feeling are being mitigated by the fact that more and more people are receiving their badges (“and the right to be buried alive”, I thought of adding). The moment they get them, they become the strongest supporters of the system.
It is only among the prospective inhabitants of Level 1 that this last trouble has arisen. All the people destined for the other levels have already got their passports. There are a few grumblers among the cranks and peace-mongers of Level 2, admittedly, but not many. The receipt of Level 2 badges has made even the most fervent critics a great deal less eloquent.
MAY 26
I miss the ‘Know Other Levels’ talks. No new talks programme has been announced so far. Probably because there is nothing to talk about. Now that we know Level 7 thoroughly and have a fair working knowledge of the other levels, what else can they find to discuss? Even with the diversity of seven levels, the amount of variety underground is very limited. It must be, just as the caves are.
I have been listening to music today. By now the tunes have become rather familiar.
It is an odd sensation, knowing so much about other levels, while the people up there know so little about the kind of life—if you can call this life—which is waiting for them. I feel like an omniscient being, severed from contact with other human beings, but knowing all about what is going to happen to them.
If God exists—in heaven, or in the centre of the earth—He must feel the same way. In seclusion He watches the impending disaster which is about to overtake the ant-like human beings. Watches with interest, but also with detachment.
But perhaps He envies them sometimes. There they are, all the ants, running about, enjoying each other’s company, planning, analysing, discussing, believing, criticising. And there He is—alone. Wiser, more powerful, but alone.
I wonder if sometimes He would like to change places: to be miserably weak, but to have company and so many interests. They may be petty interests, stupid ones; but they keep the mind busy.
Maybe this is the reason why gods—the Greek ones, at least—used sometimes to descend to earth and mix with men. They must have become bored with their own company.
MAY 27
Today it got me again.
It had been an ordinary routine day, nothing unusual, until sometime between 17.00 and 18.00 hours, when I suddenly saw the green fields near my native town. I knew perfectly well that it was my imagination, but the whole scene was sharp and bright in front of my eyes.
I do not know why it happened. It may have had something to do with the good violet perfume used by the nurse sitting next to me at lunch—she must have brought it down with her. I remember thinking how nice it smelled. Then I must have forgotten it until several hours later, when the memory brought with it the image of the meadows.
Different shades of green grass: some dark, some light and fresh. Trees and hills and the cool breeze of a spring afternoon. Blue skies with bright clouds. And people scattered here and there, and twittering birds. And a deep peace of mind, a feeling that I was alive and that being alive was enough. No need to do anything, or achieve anything, or struggle for anything. And deep breathing to welcome all the sweet scents of soil and grass and spring flowers into my breast.
No, it’s no use trying. It takes a poet to convey sensations like those. I have never been one, and poets do not grow in caves. But today, I think, I felt the way poets must feel. The vision was so sharp, so powerful, that for a moment I forgot where I was.
Was it for just a moment? I have no way of telling, for I have lost all sense of time.
But then the image disappeared, and in its place came longing for those meadows and those days. It came like a sharp pain, throbbing with increasing vigour, until I wanted to cry out and bang my head against the clean, hygienic, sterile walls.
I did nothing. Gradually the pangs subsided. But despair filled my mind, despair as black as those fields were green, as bitter as that spring breeze was sweet. There is no need for poetry to convey that.
MAY 28
P said today that she knew this was going to happen to me and that she had warned me. It is too late now, anyway.
I am so depressed that I do not want to do anything—except one thing: to get back to the surface. If I could do that I would willingly give up Level 7 for Level 1. Indeed, I would not care if they allotted me no level at all! Even if it meant spending just a very short time up above, just a day. To live for a day, and then perish!
Butterflies live for only a day, but they do live. Not in caves, but in the full light of the sun. Among flowers. They fly around from one blossom to another, in whatever direction they like.
I suppose complaining will not do any good, but what else can I do? Eat, meet P, talk with X-107 and sleep. That is the sum of my ‘activities’.
I can push the buttons, of course—when somebody decides it is necessary. That is an activity, certainly. But is it enough?
No, much too simple. Why did they make it so easy? Just pushing a few buttons—where is the fun in that?
And what next? What do I do when I have pushed my buttons? What will there be left for me when I have fulfilled my life’s function? What other goal shall I look forward to?
Shall I be like God before He created the world, sitting lonely in an empty universe? How cruel men were to create a God who is self-sufficient living a solitary life throughout eternity. Why have they condemned God, why have they condemned me, to such a lonely prison?
MAY 30
P tries hard to help me. She really is anxious about my present mood. She has even encouraged me to resume the conversations about mythology which I used to enjoy with R-747. She says that would be better than brooding all the time.
But I do not feel like it. Why should I? Do gods invent mythology for people? Let the future generations invent what stories they
like. I do not care what they think.
X-107’s attempts to make me talk about things do not succeed any more, either. Nothing interests me any more. Nothing down here, at least.
MAY 31
P is in despair about me. She must like me very much. Apparently she is quite sociable, after all. She is doing her best to drag me out of my apathy.
I see her point quite well, but I cannot be bothered to make the effort. Why should I?
Does this mean I have become self-sufficient? I want nothing of anybody or anything down here. Perhaps that makes me the most self-sufficient creature on Level 7. Like a god!
Maybe I am a god, or about to become a god! Let R-747 invent myths about me, the god who pushed the buttons. X-127, the push-button god.
No, I have not pushed the buttons yet. But I am self-sufficient like a god. Not as happy, though. Not even as happy as the butterfly which is born and dies on the same day. But who said that gods should be happy?
I am a god. The god wants to make a bargain with a butterfly. He wishes to be a butterfly for a day—but outside the caves, up there—and he offers the butterfly in return an eternal existence—down here.
What do you say to that, butterfly? Will you agree to the bargain? It’s a good one: eternity for one day of flying among the flowers.
The butterfly rejects my offer. What is it saying?
It says it will not exchange one day of happiness for eternal misery! Damnable butterfly! The audacity to refuse a god’s bargain! To defy a god! To defy God!
I shall curse you, butterfly, you colourful hedonist, I shall curse you till the end of your days!
It says something. It dares to answer! What is it?
“I do not mind your curses, O God, for my day is short.”
It flies away.
Butterfly! Butterfly! Listen to me, don’t go away! Stay with me, I won’t curse you. But stay here with me. Wait! Please stay!
JUNE 7
Today I came back from the psychological department. I spent about a week there.
Apparently I was going mad. Quite raving, as I can see for myself from what I was writing on May 31. All that nonsense about gods and butterflies! It seems I even got my entomology wrong: butterflies, so P told me when I had finished muttering about them under the drug, live for longer than a day. Some even hibernate!
Anyway, I am all right now. Only weak and tired and empty, as if someone had removed my inside. Metaphorically, that is. My mind and soul feel empty, just as if they had been purged in the way my stomach was, after the wedding chocolate.
It is a good thing, this mental purge. I do not suffer now. Nor do I enjoy my awareness of things. I just am and do not mind being.
I still have the memory of something being wrong with me, but the thing itself has gone away. It was a more complicated business than the stomach purge, though. They had to give me drugs and some electric shock treatment to clean out my mind. But now I am quiet and all right.
JUNE 9
It happened this morning.
I started my spell of duty in the PBX Operations Room at 08.00 hours. At 09.00 the yellow light came on above the screen. Two minutes later X-117 walked into the room and took his place at the other table, ready for whatever might follow the yellow warning. The Operations Room was now prepared for action. We sat in silence, watching the light.
At 09.12 hours the functional loudspeaker in the room suddenly ordered: “Attention! Prepare for action!” Simultaneously, the yellow light was replaced by a red one.
The loudspeaker spoke again: “Push Button A1!”
I pressed the button, and X-117 must have pushed his too, for Zone A on the screen suddenly became covered with red points. This meant that the one-to-five megaton rockets had been released and were now flying with incredible speed towards their targets. Zone A being relatively near, the results were to be expected in less than half an hour.
I was sitting in my place watching the screen. I was more tense than usual, but I did not feel nervous. Perhaps because of the treatment I underwent last week. Perhaps because military action—for the first time I was doing what I had come down here to do—acted as a sort of relief.
I glanced across the room at X-117, and I thought he looked very much on edge. Though the room was at a comfortable temperature, his face was sweating profusely, as if he had been pushing not a button but the rockets themselves.
Then I turned my eyes back to the screen, and sat speculating as to whether it would all amount to no more than an exchange of smallish bombs limited to one area, or whether the operation would develop into full-scale hostilities.
At 09.32 hours the first rocket hit enemy territory and one of the red spots turned into a rather larger circular red blob. Almost at once more such blobs appeared here and there over Zone A. I saw how the area of destruction grew wider and wider.
Meanwhile, though, some of the little red spots were disappearing, particularly the ones deeper in Zone A. Apparently the enemy’s interceptors were quite efficient.
Then, at 09.55, the loudspeaker sounded again: “Attention! Push Button A2!” And immediately afterwards: “Push Button A3!”
I reached quickly, and so did X-117, and the loudspeaker had hardly finished before Zone A became covered with a mass of blue and golden points.
Aesthetically the picture was quite pleasing. Red blobs and blue and yellow spots, some on the red blobs and some outside them. But the colour was still restricted to Zone A. The other zones remained white, like a continent waiting for an explorer to map it.
I wondered what impression the news would make on P. Also on other people who would meet me in the lounge and ask me about it all. I thought about this, that and the other—like during a concert, when one’s thoughts wander far away from the music.
At 10.10 came the next order from the loudspeaker: “Push Button B1, push Button B2, push Button B3, push Button C1!”
We pushed four times. Now all the map was unevenly spotted with points in three colours.
Five minutes later the blue and yellow spots in Zone A started to change into circular blots. The blue ones were particularly big: these indicated the destruction resulting from the blast and heat of multi-megaton bombs which were bursting in the air to cause very widespread damage. Areas ranging from hundreds to thousands of square miles were being wiped out.
It was obvious from the screen that this bombing was proving much more effective than the first lot. Perhaps the enemy was running short of interceptors, or else our A2 and A3 missiles were fitted with some anti-interceptor device which the A1 rockets did not possess. Whatever the explanation, the blue and golden circles were steadily obliterating Zone A, and soon the red circles looked almost insignificant. There were very few of them which were not surrounded by circles of yellow or blue. The blue was steadily spreading over the zone, with smaller golden and red blobs superimposed like stars in a night sky.
At 10.40 the dots on Zone B started their metamorphosis into circles. This time the process was different, for red, blue and yellow circles appeared simultaneously. They were all there competing for space.
The coloured ‘exploration’ progressed into the heart of Zone B almost unchecked. Apparently there were no more obstacles in the way of our missiles. The ‘terra incognita’ of the map was rapidly becoming nicely tinted. It looked as though the final picture would be much like that in Zone A, with blue covering most of the ground and yellow and red superimposed on it in smaller areas.
The spots started to spread in Zone C at 10.55. This time there were only red ones, so the process could be seen more clearly.
But there appeared to be some trouble, for a large number of the spots disappeared, meaning that the missiles had not found their marks. Either the enemy had some defensive counter-measures in Zone C, or else our rockets were simply failing to reach there. Perhaps it was the greater range that was the difficulty. Certainly something had gone wrong.
At 11.00 hours we received another order, from a differen
t voice this time: “Press Button C2, press Button C3!”
We pushed and waited again.
There were only three buttons left unpushed—the supposedly most dangerous ones, which controlled the batteries of ‘rigged’ bombs. Their radioactivity would make the areas they hit uninhabitable not just in the immediate future but for years to come. Perhaps for generations.
It had always been doubted whether these bombs would be used at all, for in all probability their effect would not be limited to the territory directly hit but would also spread to neighbouring countries. And there were no grounds for annihilating neutrals. Even more to the point, these bombs might endanger our own existence. No country wants a suicidal war!
“Or does it?” I began to ask myself; but the thought was quickly banished from my mind by the loudspeaker (in its original voice) : “Attention! Push Button A4, push Button B4, push Button C4!”
I glanced at the clock—11.15 hours—and pressed the three buttons. Then I looked up at the map, and was puzzled to find that no black marks had appeared. I pushed the buttons again. Nothing happened.
Then the loudspeaker—it was voice number two again—practically shouted: “Officer X-117! Push Buttons A4! B4! C4!”
I turned and looked at X-117. He was sitting in his chair staring at the buttons, while his arms hung limply as if someone had severed the nerves. He did not stir, but there were some sounds coming from his lips.
They were hardly audible, but after a while I could make out what he was saying: “No! Anything but those! Not Buttons 4! I can’t kill my mother! No, not those…”
The Operations Room door suddenly swung open and two men—from the medical department, I think—dragged X-117 from the room. His arms were still hanging limply, and as he staggered out of the doorway he went on repeating: “No! Not Buttons 4….”
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