Red Star

by Loren R. Graham

  “Where does Netti live?” I asked Menni.

  “In a large city about two hour’s flying time from here. A big engineering works employing tens of thousands of workers is located there, so Netti has ample material for medical research. We have another doctor at our enterprise.”

  “Surely I would be permitted to inspect that factory sometime?”

  “Of course. There is nothing particularly dangerous there. We can visit it tomorrow if you like.”

  We decided to do so.

  2. The Factory

  We covered approximately 500 kilometers in two hours. That is the speed of a plummeting falcon, and so far not even our electric trains have been able to match it. Unfamiliar landscapes unfurled below us in rapid succession. At times we were overtaken by strange birds flying even faster than we. The blue roofs of houses and the giant yellow domes of buildings I did not recognize glittered in the sunlight. The rivers and canals flashed like ribbons of steel. My eyes lingered on them, for they were the same as on Earth. In the distance appeared a hugh city spread out around a small lake and transversed by a canal. The gondola slowed down and landed gently near a small and pretty house that proved to be Netti’s. Netti was at home and glad to see us. He got into our gondola and we set off for the factory, which was located a few kilometers away on the other side of the lake.

  It consisted of five huge buildings arranged in the form of a cross. They were all identically designed, each of them having a transparent glass vault supported by several dozen dark columns in a slightly elongated ellipse. The walls between the columns were made of alternating sheets of transparent and frosted glass. We stopped by the central building, also the largest, whose gates were about 10 meters wide and 12 meters high, filling the entire space between two columns. The ceiling of the first floor transected the gates at the middle. Several pairs of rails ran through the gates and disappeared into the interior of the building.

  We ascended in the gondola to the upper half of the gates and, amid the deafening roar of the machines, flew directly into the second story. Actually, the floors of the factory were not stories as we understand them. At each level there were gigantic machines of a construction unfamiliar to me, surrounded by a network of suspended glass-parquet footbridges girded by beams of gridded steel. Interconnected by a multitude of stairways and elevators, these networks ascended toward the top of the factory in five progressively smaller tiers.

  The factory was completely free from smoke, soot, odors, and fine dust. The machines, flooded in a light that illuminated everything yet was by no means harsh, operated steadily and methodically in the clean fresh air, cutting, sawing, planing, and drilling huge pieces of iron, aluminum, nickel, and copper. Levers rose and fell smoothly and evenly like giant steel hands. Huge platforms moved back and forth with automatic precision. The wheels and transmission belts seemed immobile. The soul of this formidable mechanism was not the crude force of fire and steam, but the fine yet even mightier power of electricity. When the ear had become somewhat accustomed to it, the noise of the machines began to seem almost melodious, except, that is, when the several-thousandton hammer would fall and everything would shudder from the thunderous blow.

  Hundreds of workers moved confidently among the machines, their footsteps and voices drowned in a sea of sound. There was not a trace of tense anxiety on their faces, whose only expression was one of quiet concentration. They seem to be inquisitive, learned observers who had no real part in all that was going on around them. It was as if they simply found it interesting to watch how the enormous chunks of metal glided out beneath the transparent dome on moving platforms and fell into the steely embrace of dark monsters, where after a cruel game in which they were cracked open by powerful jaws, mauled by hard, heavy paws, and planed and drilled by sharp, flashing claws, small electric railway cars bore them off from the other side of the building in the form of elegant and finely fashioned machine parts whose purpose was a mystery to me. It seemed altogether natural that the steel monsters should not harm the small, big-eyed spectators strolling confidently among them: the giants simply scorned the frail humans as a quarry unworthy of their awesome might. To an outsider the threads connecting the delicate brains of the men with the indestructible organs of the machines were subtle and invisible.

  A Martian factory

  When we finally emerged from the building, the engineer acting as our guide asked us whether we would rather go on immediately to the other buildings and auxiliary shops or take a rest. I voted for a break.

  “Now I have seen the machines and the workers.” I said, “but I have no idea whatever of how production is organized, and I wonder whether you could tell me something about that.”

  Instead of answering, the engineer took us to a small cubical building between the central factory and one of the corner edifices. There were three more such structures, all of them arranged in the same way. Their black walls were covered with rows of shiny white signs showing tables of production statistics. I knew the Martian language well enough to be able to decipher them. On the first of them, which was marked with the number one, was the following:

  “The machine-building industry has a surplus of 968,757 man-hours daily, of which 11,325 hours are of skilled labor. The surplus at this factory is 753 hours, of which 29 hours are of skilled labor.

  “There is no labor shortage in the following industries: agriculture, chemicals, excavations, mining,” and so on, in a long alphabetical list of various branches of industry.

  Table number two read:

  “The clothing industry has a shortage of 392,685 man-hours daily, of which 21,380 hours require experienced repairmen for special machines and 7,852 hours require organization experts.”

  “The footwear industry lacks 79,360 hours, of which . . .” and so on.

  “The Institute of Statistics—3,078 hours . . .” and so on.

  There were similar figures on the third and fourth tables, which covered occupations such as preschool education, primary and secondary education, medicine in rural areas, and medicine in urban areas.

  “Why is it that a surplus of labor is indicated with precision only for the machine-building industry, whereas it is the shortages everywhere else that are noted in such detail?” I asked.

  “It is quite logical,” replied Menni. “The tables are meant to affect the distribution of labor. If they are to do that, everyone must be able to see where there is a labor shortage and just how big it is. Assuming that an individual has the same or an approximately equal aptitude for two vocations, he can then choose the one with the greater shortage. As to labor surpluses, exact data on them need be indicated only where such a surplus actually exists, so that each worker in that branch can take into consideration both the size of the surplus and his own inclination to change vocations.”

  As we were talking I suddenly noticed that certain figures on the table had disappeared and been replaced by others. I asked what that meant.

  “The figures change every hour,” Menni explained. “In the course of an hour several thousand workers announce that they want to change jobs. The central statistical apparatus takes constant note of this, transmitting the data hourly to all branches of industry.”

  “But how does the central apparatus arrive at its figures on surpluses and shortages?”

  “The Institute of Statistics has agencies everywhere which keep track of the flow of goods into and out of the stockpiles and monitor the productivity of all enterprises and the changes in their work forces. In that way it can be calculated what and how much must be produced for any given period and the number of man-hours required for the task. The Institute then computes the difference between the existing and the desired situation for each vocational area and communicates the result to all places of employment. Equilibrium is soon established by a stream of volunteers.”

  “But are there no restrictions on the consumption of goods?”

  “None whatsoever. Everyone takes whatever he needs in w
hatever quantities he wants.”

  “Do you mean that you can do all this without money, documents certifying that a certain amount of labor has been performed, pledges to perform labor, or anything at all of that sort?”

  “Nothing at all. There is never any shortage of voluntary labor—work is a natural need for the mature member of our society, and all overt or disguised compulsion is quite superfluous.”

  “But if consumption is entirely uncontrolled, there must be sharp fluctuations which upset all your statistical compilations.”

  “Not at all. A single individual may suddenly eat two or three times his normal portion of a given food or decide to change ten suits in ten days, but a society of billions of people is not subject to such fluctuations. In a population of that size deviations in any given direction are neutralized, and averages change very slowly and with the strictest continuity.”

  “In other words your statistics work almost automatically—they are calculations pure and simple?”

  “No, not really, for there are great difficulties involved in the process. The Institute of Statistics must be alert to new inventions and changes in environmental conditions which may affect industry. The introduction of a new machine, for example, immediately requires a transfer of labor in the field in which it is employed, in the machine-building industry, and sometimes also in the production of materials for both branches. If a given ore is exhausted or if new mineral fields are discovered there will again be a transfer of labor in a number of industries—mining, railroad construction, and so on. All of these factors must be calculated from the very beginning, if not with absolute precision then at least with an adequate degree of approximation. And until firsthand data become available, that is no easy task.”

  “Considering such difficulties,” I remarked, “I suppose you must constantly have a certain surplus labor reserve.”

  “Precisely, and this is the main strength of our system. Two hundred years ago, when collective labor just barely managed to satisfy the needs of society, statistics had to be very exact, and labor could not be distributed with complete freedom. There was an obligatory working day, and within those bounds it was not always or fully possible to take the vocational training of the workers into account. However, although each new invention caused statistical problems, it also contributed to solving the main difficulty, namely the transition to a system in which each individual is perfectly free to choose his own occupation. First the working day was shortened, and then, when a surplus arose in all branches, the obligation was dropped altogether. Note that the labor shortages indicated for the various industries are almost negligible, amounting to mere thousands, tens or hundreds of thousands of man-hours out of the millions and tens of millions of hours presently expended by those same industries.”

  “But shortages of labor do still exist,” I objected. “Yet I suppose that they are covered by later surpluses, are they not?”

  “Not only by later surpluses. In reality, necessary labor is computed by adding a certain quantity to the basic figures. In the most vital branches of industry—the production of food, clothing, buildings, machines, and so on—this margin can be as high as 5 percent, whereas in less important areas it is about 1.2 percent. Thus generally speaking, the figures in these tables indicating shortages express merely a relative deficiency, not an absolute one.”

  “How long is the average working day—at this factory, for example?”

  “From an hour and a half to two and a half hours,” replied the guide, “but there are those who work both more and less. Take, for example, the comrade operating the main hammer. He is so fascinated by his job that he refuses to be relieved during the entire six hours daily the factory is in production.”

  I mentally translated these figures from the Martian system of reckoning into our own. On Mars a day and night together are a little longer than on Earth and are divided into ten of their hours. This means that the average working day is from four to six Earth-hours, and the longest operational day is about fifteen hours, which is approximately the same as in our most intensely run enterprises.

  “But isn’t it harmful for that comrade at the hammer to work so much?” I asked.

  “Not for the time being,” Netti replied. “He can permit himself such a luxury for another six months or so. But of course I have warned him of the dangers to which his enthusiasm exposes him. One such risk is the possibility of a convulsive fit of madness that may irresistibly draw him under the hammer. Last year something like that happened at this very factory to another operator who was likewise fascinated by powerful sensations. It was only by a lucky chance that we managed to stop the hammer in time and avert the involuntary suicide. An appetite for strong sensations is in itself no disease, but it can easily become perverted if the nervous system is thrown ever so little off-balance by exhaustion, emotional disturbances, or an occasional illness. Of course I try to keep an eye on those workers who become overly engrossed in any sort of monotonous work.”

  “Shouldn’t this man you mentioned have cut down his labor, considering that there is a surplus in the machine-building industry?”

  “Of course not,” Menni laughed. “Why should just he take it upon himself to restore the equilibrium? The statistics oblige no one to do that. Everyone takes these figures into consideration when making their own plans, but they cannot be guided by them alone. If you were to want to begin working at this factory you would probably find a job; the surplus figure in the central statistics would rise by one or two hours, and that would be that. The statistics continually affect mass transfers of labor, but each individual is free to do as he chooses.”

  We had time to rest up during our conversation, and everyone except Menni, who was forced to leave by a call from his laboratory, continued the excursion through the factory. I decided to spend the night at Netti’s, as he promised to take me to the Children’s Colony, where his mother was working as an educator.

  3. The Children’s Colony

  There were some 15 to 20 thousand persons, almost all of them children or educators, living at the Children’s Colony, which occupied the whole of one of the largest and best parts of the city. All major cities of the planet have such institutions, and in many cases they even comprise independent towns. The only places they are not generally found is in smaller communities such as Menni’s “factory settlement.”

  Large two-story houses with the usual blue roofs were scattered among gardens with streams, ponds, fields for play and gymnastics, flower beds and plots of medicinal herbs, little houses for pets and birds. Everywhere were throngs of large-eyed children—of which sex it was impossible to tell, for boys and girls were dressed identically. True, it is difficult to distinguish even the adult Martian men from the women solely on the basis of their dress, as it is fundamentally the same and differs only slightly in style. The clothes of the men follow the form of the body more exactly than those of the women, which instead tend to conceal it. At any rate, the elderly person who greeted us as we descended from the gondola at the doors of one of the largest buildings was a woman, because Netti called her “Mama” as he embraced her. Later on, however, he simply said “Nella,” addressing her by name as he would any other comrade.

  Already informed as to the purpose of our visit, the Martian woman took us directly to her colony and led us on a thorough tour of it, beginning with the section for the youngest children, of which she was the superintendant, to the section for the oldest ones, who had already reached the first years of adolescence. Little “monsters” joined us on the way and followed along behind, their huge eyes observing with curiosity the man from another planet. They knew very well who I was, and by the time we had visited the last sections there was a whole crowd of them tagging along with us, even though most of the children in the colony had gone to play in the gardens early that morning.

  In this particular part of the colony there were about three hundred children of different ages. I asked Nella why the age-grou
ps were mixed, since separating them would considerably facilitate the assignment of tasks among the educators and simplify their work.

  “Because such a system would not really be child-rearing,” replied Nella. “If a child is to be trained to participate in society, he must live in society. Children acquire most of their knowledge of life from each other. Isolating the age-groups would mean creating a one-sided and narrow environment in which the development of the future man would be slow, sluggish, and monotonous. Age differences also make it easier to activate the children. The older children are our best helpers in caring for the little ones. No, not only do we deliberately mix children of all ages in our colonies, we also attempt to select personnel who differ greatly with respect to age and practical specialties.”

  “Yet I notice that in the sections the children are grouped according to age. This does not seem to agree with what you have just told me.”

  “The children are brought together in the sections only to sleep and eat. Here, of course, there is no reason to mix the different age groups. But when they play and study they are allowed to group themselves any way they want. Even when something such as the reading of a fictional or scientific work is presented to the children of one section, the auditorium is always filled by children from other sections. The children choose their own company, and they like to make friends with boys and girls of other ages and especially with adults.”

  “Nella,” said one little boy, stepping out of the crowd, “Esta took my boat, the one I made myself. Take it away from her and give it back to me.”

  “Where is she?” Nella asked.

  “She ran away to the pond to sail the boat on the water,” explained the child.

  “Well, I’m busy at the moment. Get one of the older children to go along with you and convince Esta to be nice to you. Or better yet, go alone and help her sail the boat. Small wonder that she likes it, if it is such a good one.”