“Made the readings?” It was Bethya’s soft voice. Dawson almost opened his eyes, but did not. On an impulse he remained unmoving. Perhaps he might learn something of interest—the girl’s motive in keeping him hidden.
“It checked with mine,” a man said. “In a few days I can turn in my report to the Council. The grant should be large—”
“And this man from the past—there’ll be a grant for that, too. Enough, Fered.”
“Yes.” The man’s voice was low and pleasant. “We can marry then, Bethya. But I am not quite sure yet. Will have to question him. Though the interior of the bathysphere confirmed his story.”
There was silence for a long time. At last Dawson groaned, rolled over, and sat up. His arm, he saw, was neatly bandaged and strapped into a light, rigid-metal frame that held it motionless.
The room in which he found himself was lighted by filtered sunlight that came, with a warm golden radiance, through circular-paned windows. Designs of translucent glass bricks were set here and there in the plastic walls. The floor of the room was a mosaic that yielded slightly to Dawson’s feet when he swung his legs down from the couch on which he sat.
The furnishings were comfortable, yet definitely unusual. They were all swooping curves and graceful whorls, looking as though moulded out of one piece, tinted delicately in harmonizing colors. Couches and chairs had been built for comfort, Dawson saw. Seated together in one were Bethya and a man.
He was a slim, dark-haired young fellow, with a youthful round face and soft brown eyes. He wore tan shorts, a light sleeveless shirt, and sandals. That was all.
He stood up and came forward, bringing Dawson a little tray on which stood a glass of yellow fluid and what looked like a celluloid capsule.
“S’ephen Dawson . . . I’m Fered Yolath.” Dawson grinned feebly and extended his right hand.
“Glad to know you.”
Not fully understanding the gesture, Fered lifted his hands, palms outward, at shoulder height.
“Oh—I see. Our customary greeting—Well, before we talk, take this capsule and drink this nutros.” He went on as Dawson obeyed. “You have been a long time without food. We’ve fed you—by injections—while you slept, nearly fourteen longsecs—”
“What?”
“I don’t know how you reckoned time in your day, Dawson. It’s mid-morning now.” He took the empty glass and handed the tray to Bethya, who slid it into a wall compartment. “How do you feel?”
“All right,” Dawson said. He still had that vague sense of disorientation, of instability, as though the Earth itself had vanished from beneath his feet. “Have I really slept for six hundred years?”
“Yes.”
“That preservative gas in the bathysphere—I think I understand. It put me into a state of suspended animation, arrested all metabolism. It was supposed to ‘freeze’ deep-sea fish, but it worked on any sort of animal tissue, I guess. I’m living proof of that. Even my clothing’s been preserved in pretty good shape.”
“So are the metal parts of your garments. There was no water vapor in the bathysphere, and they didn’t rust.”
“It’s harder for me to believe it than for you,” Dawson said with a touch of wry humor. “Wait a minute,” he went on as he remembered something. “Have you a mirror—a glass that reflects images?”
“We still use the word mirror.” Fered smiled, showing even white teeth. “Here.” He turned to Bethya, who took a small shining disk from her garments and gave it to Dawson. The object was not an inch wide, he saw, and yet curved so that the reflection was magnified greatly without distortion. Of course Bethya would carry a mirror. The eternal feminine, even after six hundred years!
“Just before I passed out,” Dawson said, “I remember cutting my forehead. Cut it to the bone, too. The wound’s gone. No, there’s still a scar.”
“Scarcely noticeable,” Fered nodded. “Your metabolism was tremendously slow, but it went on nevertheless.”
Somehow this latest discovery was the final touch that convinced Dawson. Simultaneously came a memory he did not want. Better to forget Marian now, if he could. At least, he should keep his thoughts away from those old days in New York . . .
“I’m curious,” he said. “This new world of yours—I want to know all about it.”
“And we’re curious about your world,” Fered said. “We have records, naturally, but we don’t know how much exaggeration has crept in. A living fossil—” He laughed. “You’re not insulted?”
“I’ve been called worse things.” Dawson was beginning to like this easy-going youngster. “What can I tell you about the world I come from?”
“Nothing, yet. It’s much better for you not to overwork your brain till you’ve recovered completely. Besides—”
BETHYA interrupted.
“The Council will question him, Fered,” she said.
“Yes. Of course. Meanwhile, there’s no harm in telling you how we live, Dawson.”
“All right. Thanks. What is this Council?”
“The Advisory Council. A group of men and women who administer the world government. New ones are chosen from time to time as the old ones die. The greatest minds on Earth.”
“It sounds a bit like Technocracy,” Dawson said. “A world government? No nations or states?”
“States, of course. But the Council lives in the capitol, here in America—in Washington.”
“We used to have a President. He was elected—”
Fered nodded.
“So I’ve read. The members of the Council are elected, too, by state electoral votes, after they’ve proved the merits of their claims by some achievement. Even I might become—”
“No!” There was a hint of panic in Bethya’s voice. “I don’t like that, Fered, even though you’re joking.”
The youngster flashed a smile at her. “Little chance of my being elected. My vibratory-principle isn’t good enough—”
“It might be,” the girl whispered, her blue eyes wide. “Sometimes I’m afraid. And yet we can’t afford to marry unless you get a grant.”
Dawson shrugged.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s not complicated,” Fered told him. “I’ve been working on a theoretical idea I’ve had for some time. The Council always encourages scientific work. They give grants—work-units—in return for any worthwhile ideas worked out and given to them.”
“They keep the ideas themselves?”
“Of course not! We’re not under a tyranny, Dawson. Any new scientific principles are worked out by the Council and given back to the world. Naturally the Council is better equipped to develop such ideas than—well, than I am.”
Bethya broke in.
“Fered hasn’t told you everything. If a man or woman is elected to the Council, he must dedicate his life to it. He can never see his friends or relatives again. He lives in Washington . . . Marriages are automatically dissolved if you’re elected. It’s like cutting all ties.”
“That’s no sacrifice,” Fered said, his eyes glowing. “It takes all a man’s energies to serve the world—it’s the greatest honor one could want. But—” He looked at Bethya. “I won’t be taken, darlya.” The unfamiliar word was a caress. “And I can always refuse, you know.”
DAWSON looked from one to the other of the pair. He was beginning to understand. The youngsters were in love, of course. For the rest—what was this Council? He didn’t know, but despite Fered’s reassuring words, he felt a vague sense of something wrong. He did not know just what. Perhaps Fered trusted the Council too much. It was like believing utterly in propaganda, never asking a question.
“Aren’t there any revolutions?” Dawson asked. “No racial barriers? No social unrest?”
“Why, no. The Council rules. It’s ruled for five hundred years, always beneficially. There’s no reason for unrest. The system has stood the test of time, you see.”
“All that power—power to rule the world—in the hands of a few men?”
/>
“Men and women. Six of them, always. They can be recalled by popular vote, though that’s never happened, as far as I know.”
“What’s going to happen to me?” Dawson asked abruptly.
“Perhaps the Council will see you, or a group of scientists. You needn’t worry. Everything will be made easy for you.”
“Made easy for you.” The sentence struck a dissonant chord in Dawson’s mind. This seemed like a Utopia. Everything was easy—even adverse weather conditions were shut out by super-scientific barriers. A bit too easy, perhaps.
Fered was still talking.
“You’ll be given time to adjust yourself to these new conditions. Given work for which you’re fitted and which you like. Psychographs will take care of any mental kinks. Jumping six centuries may have upset you a bit! That’s putting it quietly, I’d say.”
Putting it—mildly? Despite the familiarity of the language, Dawson realized that there were many new colloquialisms he would have to learn.
“I’d like to see your city.”
“Dasonee? All right. I’ll drive you.”
“What about reporting?” Bethya said.
“To the Council? Do it for me, darlya, will you? Grasas. Just about S’ephen Dawson, though. I won’t have the vibratory-principle papers finished till tomorrow.”
BETHYA nodded, gave that odd salute to Dawson, and went out through a door that slid up as she approached.
“This is my home,” Fered said. “You’ll be my guest until requests come.”
“Requests?”
“From the Council—as to your disposal.” That was an odd way to put it. Why not—orders? It would be the more logical word. Again Dawson sensed something vaguely amiss in this Utopian civilization, too tenuous for him to grasp or understand. It was like a shadow that fell momentarily over the bright, sunlit room.
“Your experiment is finished?” he asked, more through politeness than anything else.
“My part’s done. That’s why Bethya and I were on the beach last night. We were registering lightning-current on recorders. I wanted to check a minor point. The real work will be done by the Council. I’m not fitted for it. I’ve supplied the basic idea, and they’ll work it out.”
Dawson regarded him queerly.
“You’re satisfied with that?” he snapped. “To let others finish your experiment?” Fered looked at him.
“But I am finished! I’ve provided the idea!”
“This world is different,” Dawson said. “You may not believe it, but in my day people got a kick—pleasure—out of finishing anything they started, even if it was just carving a toy sailboat.”
The younger man frowned, puzzled.
“But—surely—it would have been enough to visualize the sailboat, and let the Council carry out the task. The Council is far wiser than any one man. Its members know what should be best for the good of all.”
“I suppose everyone thinks as you do, Fered?”
“Naturally.”
“No experiment is ever finished?”
“Of course it’s finished! By the Council! You don’t understand—”
“I understand,” Dawson said, rather breathlessly. “Let’s not talk about it just now. You were going to take me for a drive.”
He followed Fered toward the door, a sick, cold feeling in his stomach. Both the young man and Bethya seemed completely happy, satisfied with their lot. Was it actually possible that mankind had become a race of slaves, not realizing their servitude, worshipping the tyrants who ruled them?
No—his imagination was running riot, Dawson thought. This civilization seemed far better than the one he had left. But he knew, deep down within him, that something was wrong—very wrong.
This was not Utopia, after all.
CHAPTER III
The Discord
UNDER other circumstances, the drive through Dasonee might have been enjoyable. But Dawson was too busy searching for the flaw in the crystal. Under the warmth of a semi-tropical sun men and women in light garments strolled about or rode in the three-wheeled cars—propelled, Fered said, by electro-magnetism.
“Doesn’t anybody work?”
“Naturally they work. A few hours each day, longer if they wish. Machines toil for us, you see, Dawson. In our world the happiness of man is the most important thing.” Happiness—yes. Contentment, too. But there was none of the unrest that had existed in Dawson’s time—nothing of the adventurous, daredevil spirit that sent men into the sky and beneath the sea and to the unexplored places beyond civilization.
Everything was made easy for these people. Scarcely ever did anything go wrong. Each man and woman had his appointed task, and was responsible to someone above him, and so it went up to the supreme authority of the Advisory Council. Yet there was a certain helplessness about the dwellers in Dasonee, somehow. They were—that was it—like children. Blind, unquestioning loyalty and obedience. So might a child feel toward its parents. But a child is eventually taught self-reliance, and there was none of that in Dasonee!
Dawson realized that this quality was an important one—perhaps the most important of all in the march of civilization. Fered had been willing to let the Council finish his experiment. He had lost all self-reliance. It had been weeded out of the race in six hundred years. So Dawson decided, after hours of observation and conversation with his guide.
Dasonee was a typical small city of the era. No servant problem—robot machinery was highly developed. Food? Scientific farming—cattle and sheep ranches, with ultra-modem facilities requiring only some human superintendence. Fishing? You went out in specially-built, huge boats, pushed a few buttons, and metal nets came up with the catch, dumping it in the hold to be cleaned by machinery.
Social life? There were crêches for children, but these were not compulsory. Family life wasn’t extinct. Amusements were greatly developed, both in the home and out. Vast theatres were subsidized by the government. At these one saw symphonies in light and color, ballets in which the dancers, with the aid of metal suits and magnetism, seemed to float in mid-air. And all of these amusements were surprisingly cheap. It took few work-units to live in this civilization, Dawson found.
Then came the accident. It happened on one of the higher ramps, a long descending curve that dropped down steeply to street level. Fered was driving the little car. Suddenly an oncoming vehicle loomed directly in their path. Fered swerved the car sharply to avoid a crash. Simultaneously there was a sharp, brittle snap, and the car jolted slightly.
It slid directly toward the slight railing that edged the ramp.
Whether or not the guard-barrier would hold, Dawson did not know. The wheels were locked, he realized, as Fered jerked the control-lever back and forth. But the youngster did not appear frightened. He touched a concealed knob, pulled at it—and it came off in his hand.
The car slid on.
Dawson looked sharply at Fered. The young man was frozen. He reached out with a helpless, fumbling motion—at air.
“Jump!” Dawson yelped. Fered didn’t move. He had the expression of a frightened small child—uncomprehending.
There was little time to think. The car was almost at the rail, moving with a velocity that would have carried it through and into the abyss, to crash down into the street below. Dawson hurled himself against Fered, so that both their bodies smashed into the side of the car. Their combined weight lifted a wheel from the ground.
The little vehicle overbalanced, and fell over, capsizing. Fered made no effort to save himself, but Dawson managed to push him free.
They got up slowly. There was a queer expression on Fered’s face.
“That—that never happened to me before,” he said dazedly.
“Well, here comes help,” Dawson grunted. A repair car was already swooping down upon them. Within a few moments it had towed the wrecked vehicle away, and a new one had arrived for them. Fered and Dawson got in, and they headed back home.
“Why didn’t you jump, Fered?” Dawson s
aid abruptly.
FERED shook his head.
“I don’t know. It never happened to me before . . . I had the strangest feeling, as though the Earth had dropped from under me.”
Of course. Fered had always been taught to depend upon others. Independence of thought was something that was lost to this new world. The unexpected would find these people helpless—for they had lost their self-reliance. Without leaders—the leadership to which they had been conditioned for centuries—they would be sheep!
Back at Fered’s home, they talked further. Dawson asked questions. “Have you achieved space travel yet?” he asked.
“No. Why should we? Though—wait a moment.” Fered touched a few buttons on his televisor set, and watched the screen. A page of printed matter appeared on it. Dawson could not read it. It was English, but—“Metrsn dsndgfmspc strktr . . .”
Fered grinned.
“Simplified spelling—a form of shorthand used, particularly in libraries. You’ll learn it eventually. A meteor was seen descending from space to strike Terra—no one knows just when, but it must have been around your time, Dawson. It proved to be a space ship, but it was empty. No one ever found out much about it. It’s like that Arizona meteor crater, just a mystery.”
“Yeah.” Dawson was thinking of something else. “About your experiment, Fered. I used to be an amateur scientist, in my way. Though I suppose now—”
The young man seemed excited. “Why, you’ll want to know about the vibrationary principles. Let me tell you about my own—”
“Aren’t you afraid to tell me?”
“Afraid? Why?” Fered asked, and Dawson did not press the subject. He had an idea. He listened intently as the other brought out papers and explained his ideas, and occasionally Dawson threw in carefully-planned comments. He made suggestions here and there, and spoke of his own college experiments. Fered listened with much attention. He began to ask questions about the laboratories of 1941, the great research bureaus, the private investigations of inventors.
“You know,” he said at last, “I might have liked those days, Dawson. Something you said a while ago, that people liked finishing what they started—it must have been rather exciting.”
Collected Fiction Page 202