by Jack Vance
The girl’s smile remained frozen while she looked at him with startled eyes. “Mr. who?”
“Sewell Sepp, the Secretary of Public Affairs.”
The girl asked gently, “Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“No.”
“It’s impossible, sir.”
Luke nodded sourly. “Then I’ll see Commissioner Parris deVicker.”
“Do you have an appointment to see Mr. deVicker?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
The girl shook her head with a trace of amusement. “Sir, you can’t just walk in on these people. They’re extremely busy. Everyone must have an appointment.”
“Oh come now,” said Luke. “Surely it’s conceivable that—”
“Definitely not, sir.”
“Then,” said Luke, “I’ll make an appointment. I’d like to see Mr. Sepp some time today, if possible.”
The girl lost interest in Luke. She resumed her manner of impersonal courtesy. “I’ll call the office of Mr. Sepp’s appointment secretary.”
She spoke into a mesh, turned back to Luke. “No appointments are open this month, sir. Will you speak to someone else? Some under-official?”
“No,” said Luke. He gripped the edge of the counter for a moment, started to turn away, then asked, “Who authorizes these appointments?”
“The secretary’s first aide, who screens the list of applications.”
“I’ll speak to the first aide, then.”
The girl sighed. “You need an appointment, sir.”
“I need an appointment to make an appointment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do I need an appointment to make an appointment for an appointment?”
“No, sir. Just walk right in.”
“Where?”
“Suite 42, inside the rotunda, sir.”
Luke passed through twelve-foot crystal doors, walked down a short hall. Scurrying patterns of color followed him like shadows along both the walls, grotesque cubistic shapes parodying the motion of his body: a whimsy which surprised Luke and might have pleased him under less critical circumstances.
He passed through another pair of crystal portals into the rotunda. Six levels above, a domed ceiling depicted scenes of legend in stained glass. Behind a ring of leather couches doors gave into surrounding offices; one of these doors, directly across from the entrance, bore the words:
Offices of the Secretary
Department of Public Affairs
On the couches half a hundred men and women waited, with varying degrees of patience. The careful disdain with which they surveyed each other suggested that their status was high; the frequency with which they consulted their watches conveyed the impression that they were momentarily on the point of departure.
A mellow voice sounded over a loudspeaker: “Mr. Artur Coff, please, to the Office of the Secretary.” A plump gentleman threw down the periodical he had fretfully been examining, jumped to his feet. He crossed to the bronze and black glass door, passed through.
Luke watched him enviously, then turned aside through an arch marked Suite 42. An usher in a brown and black uniform stepped forward; Luke stated his business and was conducted into a small cubicle.
A young man behind a metal desk peered intently at him. “Sit down, please.” He motioned to a chair. “Your name?”
“Luke Grogatch.”
“Ah, Mr. Grogatch. May I inquire your business?”
“I have something to say to the Secretary of Public Affairs.”
“Regarding what subject?”
“A personal matter.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grogatch. The Secretary is more than busy. He’s swamped with important Organization business. But if you’ll explain the situation to me, I’ll recommend you to an appropriate member of the staff.”
“That won’t help,” said Luke. “I want to consult the Secretary in relation to a recently issued policy directive.”
“Issued by the Secretary?”
“Yes.”
“You wish to object to this directive?”
Luke grudgingly admitted as much.
“There are appropriate channels for this process,” said the aide decisively. “If you will fill out this form—not here, but in the rotunda—drop it into the Suggestion Box to the right of the door as you go out—”
In sudden fury Luke wadded up the form, flung it down on the desk. “Surely he has five minutes free—”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Grogatch,” the aide said in a voice of ice. “If you will look through the rotunda you will see a number of very important people who have waited, some of them for months, for five minutes with the Secretary. If you wish to fill out an application, stating your business in detail, I will see that it receives due consideration.”
Luke stalked out of the cubicle. The aide watched him go with a bleak smile of dislike. The man obviously had Nonconformist tendencies, he thought…probably should be watched.
Luke stood in the rotunda, muttering, “What now? What now? What now?” in a half-mesmerized undertone. He stared around the rotunda, at the pompous High Echelon folk, arrogantly consulting their watches and tapping their feet. “Mr. Jepper Prinn!” called the mellow voice over the loudspeaker. “The Office of the Secretary, if you please.” Luke watched Jepper Prinn walk to the bronze and black glass portal.
Luke slumped into a chair, scratched his long nose, looked cautiously around the rotunda. Nearby sat a big, bull-necked man with a red face, protruding lips, a shock of rank blond hair—a tycoon, judging from his air of absolute authority.
Luke rose and went to a desk placed for the convenience of those waiting. He took several sheets of paper with the Tower letterhead, unobtrusively circled the rotunda to the entrance into Suite 42. The bull-necked tycoon paid him no heed.
Luke girded himself, closing his collar, adjusting the set of his jacket. He took a deep breath, then, when the florid man glanced in his direction, came forward officiously. He looked briskly around the circle of couches, consulting his papers; then catching the eye of the tycoon, frowned, squinted, walked forward.
“Your name, sir?” asked Luke in an official voice.
“I’m Hardin Arthur,” rasped the tycoon. “Why?”
Luke nodded, consulted his paper. “The time of your appointment?”
“Eleven-ten. What of it?”
“The Secretary would like to know if you can conveniently lunch with him at one-thirty?”
Arthur considered. “I suppose it’s possible,” he grumbled. “I’ll have to rearrange some other business…An inconvenience—but I can do it, yes.”
“Excellent,” said Luke. “At lunch the Secretary feels that he can discuss your business more informally and at greater length than at eleven-ten, when he can only allow you seven minutes.”
“Seven minutes!” rumbled Arthur indignantly. “I can hardly spread my plans out in seven minutes.”
“Yes sir,” said Luke. “The Secretary realizes this, and suggests that you lunch with him.”
Arthur petulantly hauled himself to his feet. “Very well. Lunch at one-thirty, correct?”
“Correct, sir. If you will walk directly into the Secretary’s office at that time.”
Arthur departed the rotunda, and Luke settled into the seat Arthur had vacated.
Time passed very slowly. At ten minutes after eleven the mellow voice called out, “Mr. Hardin Arthur, please. To the Office of the Secretary.”
Luke rose to his feet, stalked with great dignity across the rotunda and through the bronze and black glass door.
Behind a long black desk sat the Secretary, a rather undistinguished man with gray hair and snapping gray eyes. He raised his eyebrows as Luke came forward: Luke evidently did not fit his preconception of Hardin Arthur.
The Secretary spoke. “Sit down, Mr. Arthur. I may as well tell you bluntly and frankly that we think your scheme is impractical. By ‘we’ I mean myself and the Board of Policy Evaluation—who of course h
ave referred to the Files. First, the costs are excessive. Second, there’s no guarantee that you can phase your program into that of our other tycoons. Third, the Board of Policy Evaluation tells me that Files doubts whether we’ll need that much new capacity.”
“Ah,” Luke nodded wisely. “I see. Well, no matter. It’s not important.”
“Not important?” The Secretary sat up in his chair, stared at Luke in wonder. “I’m surprised to hear you say so.”
Luke made an airy gesture. “Forget it. Life’s too short to worry about these things. Actually there’s another matter I want to discuss with you.”
“Ah?”
“It may seem trivial, but the implications are large. A former employee called the matter to my attention. He’s now a flunky on one of the sewer maintenance tunnel gangs, an excellent chap. Here’s the situation. Some idiotic jack-in-office has issued a directive which forces this man to carry a shovel back and forth to the warehouse every day, before and after work. I’ve taken the trouble to follow up the matter and the chain leads here.” He displayed his three policy directives.
Frowningly the Secretary glanced through them. “These all seem perfectly regular. What do you want me to do?”
“Issue a directive clarifying the policy. After all, we can’t have these poor devils working three hours overtime for tomfoolishness.”
“Tomfoolishness?” The Secretary was displeased. “Hardly that, Mr. Arthur. The economy directive came to me from the Board of Directors, from the Chairman himself, and if—”
“Don’t mistake me,” said Luke hastily. “I’ve no quarrel with economy; I merely want the policy applied sensibly. Checking a shovel into the warehouse—where’s the economy in that?”
“Multiply that shovel by a million, Mr. Arthur,” said the Secretary coldly.
“Very well, multiply it,” argued Luke. “We have a million shovels. How many of these million shovels are conserved by this order? Two or three a year?”
The Secretary shrugged. “Obviously in a general directive of this sort, inequalities occur. So far as I’m concerned, I issued the directive because I was instructed to do so. If you want it changed you’ll have to consult the Chairman of the Board.”
“Very well. Can you arrange an appointment for me?”
“Let’s settle the matter even sooner,” said the Secretary. “Right now. We’ll talk to him across the screen, although, as you say, it seems a trivial matter…”
“Demoralization of the working force isn’t trivial, Secretary Sepp.”
The Secretary shrugged, touched a button, spoke into a mesh. “The Chairman of the Board, if he’s not occupied.”
The screen glowed. The Chairman of the Board of Directors looked out at them. He sat in a lounge chair on the deck of his penthouse at the pinnacle of the tower. In one hand he held a glass of pale effervescent liquid; beyond him opened sunlight and blue air and a wide glimpse of the miraculous City.
“Good morning, Sepp,” said the Chairman cordially, and nodded toward Luke. “Good morning to you, sir.”
“Chairman, Mr. Arthur here is protesting the economy directive you sent down a few days ago. He claims that strict application is causing hardship among the labor force: demoralization, actually. Something to do with shovels.”
The Chairman considered. “Economy directive? I hardly recall the exact case.”
Secretary Sepp described the directive, citing code and reference numbers, explaining the provisions, and the Chairman nodded in recollection. “Yes, the metal-shortage thing. Afraid I can’t help you, Sepp, or you, Mr. Arthur. Policy Evaluation sent it up. Apparently we’re running short of minerals; what else can we do? Cinch in the old belts, eh? Hard on all of us. What’s this about shovels?”
“It’s the whole matter,” cried Luke in sudden shrillness, evoking startled glances from Secretary and Chairman. “Carrying a shovel back and forth to the warehouse three hours a day! It’s not economy, it’s a disorganized farce!”
“Come now, Mr. Arthur,” the Chairman chided humorously. “So long as you’re not carrying the shovel yourself why the excitement? It works the very devil with one’s digestion. Until Policy Evaluation changes its collective mind—as it often does—then we’ve got to string along. Can’t go counter to Policy Evaluation, you know. They’re the people with the facts and figures.”
“Neither here nor there,” mumbled Luke. “Carrying a shovel three hours—”
“Perhaps a bit of bother for the men concerned,” said the Chairman with a hint of impatience, “but they’ve got to see the thing from the long view. Sepp, perhaps you’ll lunch with me? A marvelous day, lazy weather.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I’ll be pleased indeed.”
“Excellent. At one or one-thirty, whenever convenient for you.”
The screen went blank. Secretary Sepp rose to his feet. “There it is, Mr. Arthur. I can’t do any more.”
“Very well, Mr. Secretary,” said Luke in a hollow voice.
“Sorry I can’t be of more help in the other matter, but as I say—”
“It’s inconsequential.”
Luke turned, left the elegant office, passed through the bronze and black glass doors into the rotunda. Through the arch into Suite 42 he saw a large bull-necked man, tomato-red in the face, hunched forward across a counter. Luke stepped forward smartly, leaving the rotunda just as the authentic Mr. Arthur and the aide came forth, deep in agitated conversation.
Luke stopped by the information desk. “Where is the Policy Evaluation Board?”
“Level 29, sir, this building.”
In Policy Evaluation on Level 29 Luke talked with a silk-mustached young man, courtly and elegant, with the status classification Plan Coordinator. “Certainly!” exclaimed the young man in response to Luke’s question. “Authoritative information is the basis of authoritative organization. Material from Files is collated, digested in the Bureau of Abstracts and sent up to us. We shape it and present it to the Board of Directors in the form of a daily précis.”
Luke expressed interest in the Bureau of Abstracts, and the young man quickly became bored. “Grubbers among the statistics, barely able to compose an intelligible sentence. If it weren’t for us—” His eyebrows, silken as his mustache, hinted of the disasters which in the absence of Policy Evaluation would overtake the Organization. “They work in a suite down on the Sixth Level.”
Luke descended to the Bureau of Abstracts, and found no difficulty gaining admission to the general office. In contrast to the rather nebulous intellectualism of Policy Evaluation, the Bureau of Abstracts seemed workaday and matter-of-fact. A middle-aged woman, cheerfully fat, inquired Luke’s business, and when Luke professed himself a journalist, conducted him about the premises. They went from the main lobby, walled in antique cream-colored plaster with gold scrollwork, past the small fusty cubicles, where clerks sat at projection-desks scanning ribbons of words, extracting idea-sequences, emending, excising, condensing, cross-referring, finally producing the abstract to be submitted to Policy Evaluation. Luke’s fat and cheerful guide brewed them a pot of tea; she asked questions which Luke answered in general terms, straining his voice and pursing his mouth in the effort to seem agreeable and hearty. He himself asked questions. “I’m interested in a set of statistics on the scarcity of metals, or ores, or something similar which recently went up to Policy Evaluation. Would you know anything about this?”
“Heavens no,” the woman responded. “There’s just too much material coming in—the business of the entire Organization.”
“Where does this material come from? Who sends it to you?”
The woman made a humorous little grimace of distaste. “From Files, down on Sublevel 12. I can’t tell you much, because we don’t associate with the personnel. They’re low status: clerks and the like. Sheer automatons.”
Luke expressed an interest in the source of the Bureau of Abstracts’ information. The woman shrugged, as if to say, everyone to his own taste. “I’ll c
all down to the Chief File Clerk; I know him, very slightly.”
The Chief File Clerk, Mr. Sidd Boatridge, was self-important and brusque, as if aware of the low esteem in which he was held by the Bureau of Abstracts. He dismissed Luke’s questions with a stony face of indifference. “I really have no idea, sir. We file, index, and cross-index material into the Information Bank, but concern ourselves very little with outgoing data. My duties in fact are mainly administrative. I’ll call in one of the under-clerks; he can tell you more than I can.”
The under-clerk who answered Boatridge’s summons was a short turnip-faced man with matted red hair. “Take Mr. Grogatch into the outer office,” said the Chief File Clerk testily. “He wants to ask you a few questions.”
In the outer office, out of the Chief File Clerk’s hearing, the under-clerk became rather surly and pompous, as if he had divined the level of Luke’s status. He referred to himself as a “line-tender” rather than a “file clerk”, the latter apparently being a classification of lesser prestige. His “line-tending” consisted of sitting beside a panel which glowed and blinked with a thousand orange and green lights. “The orange lights indicate information going down into the Bank,” said the file clerk. “The green lights show where somebody up-level is drawing information out—generally at the Bureau of Abstracts.”
Luke observed the orange and green flickers for a moment. “What information is being transmitted now?”
“Couldn’t say,” the file clerk grunted. “It’s all coded. Down in the old office we had a monitoring machine and never used it. Too much else to do.”
Luke considered. The file clerk showed signs of restiveness. Luke’s mind worked hurriedly. He asked, “So—as I understand it—you file information, but have nothing further to do with it?”
“We file it and code it. Whoever wants information puts a program into the works and the information goes out to him. We never see it, unless we went and looked in the old monitoring machine.”
“Which is still down at your old office?”
The file clerk nodded. “They call it the staging chamber now. Nothing there but input and output pipes, the monitor, and the custodian.”