A REASONABLE WORLD

by Damon Knight

  “You would say, hm, something like, ‘One gives, one takes, and no one claims anything.’ But it is not so poetic in English.”

  “Si dà, si prende, e niente—” The chant broke off; there were shouts, screams. The American craned his neck to see what was happening, but too many people were in the way. On the other side of the barricade, two mounted carabinieri trotted by; one of them was blowing a whistle. The American felt his arm being tugged. “I don’t think it is so good here,” said his friend. “Let’s go in that building, maybe we can see better.”

  They started toward the entrance of an office building, but the Italian changed his mind. “Wait, there is a café, that’s even better.”

  Inside, in the big holo over the bar, they could see an elevated view of the street. Here and there little knots of men with long padded poles were struggling with a confused mass of people. The poles wavered, fell one by one. The crowd seemed to lose its focus. People who had been struggling a moment ago began walking aimlessly back and forth. The carabinieri were trying to clear the piazza. Now there was a siren, and an ambulance came whooping majestically forward; people were getting out of its way, but without undue haste.

  Now the American could see that the street was littered with bodies. Some were sitting up, holding their heads; one, with a torn blouse, staggered to his feet and fell down again. Another ambulance came up; attendants from the first one were helping people into their vehicle.

  “Who are those men?” asked the American, half-listening to the rapid commentary of the holo announcer which he could not understand.

  “They are ruffians hired to break up the march,” said his friend.

  “Does this happen often?”

  “Only once before, and it was just like this. You see, the ruffians can’t really hurt people, only push them off the street, but here in Rome we don’t even like that. We want them to march if they like to. So the people attack the ruffians and put them in the hospital. That is the way we do things.”

  In Stuttgart, somebody smuggled in a big flatscreen to a rally for Deputy Ernst Schuplatt and opened it up in the middle of the Deputy’s speech. HAVE YOU BEEN IN SCHUPLATT’S MIND? said the letters on the screen.

  YES.

  IS HE TELLING THE TRUTH?

  NO.

  WILL HE DO WHAT HE SAYS?

  NO.

  SHOULD WE VOTE FOR HIM?

  NO.

  Schuplatt’s supporters surged inward toward the woman who was operating the screen, but a protective ring of bodyguards squirted them with green ink and ammonia.

  WHY ARE THEY TRYING TO STOP US? said the screen, swaying before it toppled.

  THEY ARE AFRAID OF…

  In the ensuing riot, fifty people were injured and two were trampled to death; the podium was knocked over and Schuplatt’s chemise was torn off. Police got him away without serious injury, but the next time he appeared in public he was hissed.

  24

  For about a month after they left Geoffrey on CV, it did not seem likely to either Randy Geller or Yvonne Barlow that their partnership would last. There were constant quarrels, tears, spoiled dinners, upset stomachs, lawyers’ bills, and sleepless nights. Gradually things grew a little better.

  Barlow got a little part-time work at a biologics factory in San Francisco, but it wasn’t enough; Geller was apparently unemployable, although both of them were in demand for seminars, lectures and talk shows about McNulty’s Disease. They took as many of these dates as they could get, because they had to have the money. Their lawyer had warned them that they might be arrested at any time if they annoyed the administration, and therefore they tried to stay off national holo, but they worked as advisors fairly often when the networks were putting together think shows. In November they were involved behind the scenes in preparing for a panel consisting of the biophysicist Cynthia Gold, the philosopher Merton Byers, and the pop science writer Aaron Asemion. The panel was discussing the scientific and philosophic implications of the McNulty’s Parasite.

  “It’s the ultimate in parasites,” said Gold, “a creature that has not only lost limbs and appendages, but its entire physical structure, leaving nothing but what I suppose we must call a mind. It lives vicariously, getting all its sensory information through the host’s organs, and even, we believe, experiencing the host’s emotions. Knowing that this is possible has made us revise all our ideas of what an organism is, what a mind is. For the first time we are dealing with a truly alien creature, one that does not belong to any terrestrial phylum. In a real sense, this is the most important thing that has ever happened in biology. Naturally, we are wondering what else is out there.”

  Geller was thinking glumly that three-quarters of what Gold was saying she had cribbed directly from him and Yvonne, and also that there was no scientific way for a recovered patient to tell whether he was reinfected or not. For all he knew there was a parasite in him at this moment. In fact, if he wanted to admit it to himself, he knew it was there; he could feel it.

  Was it a little like having an angel? No, because the other mind was not judgmental, it never accused him of sin or urged him to do better. It was more like having a second self, a twin who rejoiced when he was happy, grieved when he was sad. A twin who was wiser than himself, who knew more about the reasons for his joy or sadness. And he resented that a little, but it had made him think more about the reasons. And it had made some changes in his life. When he thought about those, he realized that he was no longer doing some things that had made him feel bad; on the whole, he supposed he was happier. What he still couldn’t swallow was the knowledge that the symbiont didn’t just want him to be happy, it wanted him to be happy because that made him a better host. Good dog.

  In December Barlow announced that she was pregnant again.

  Following a boundary dispute in 2008, a pitched battle was fought outside Vilnius in Lithuania, between elements of the Russian Army and a Lithuanian militia. Both sides were armed with padded poles and tridents. The Reds fought as a legion, the Lithuanians, in green uniforms, as skirmishers. On both sides, the effort was not to kill or incapacitate the enemy but to subdue him and force him to give up ground. Some tempers were lost, however, the Lithuanian pole with its slender tip lent itself to an upward sweep between the opponent’s legs, a tactic which the Russians considered unfair.

  After three hours the numerically superior Russians forced the Greens back into Vilnius, where their commander surrendered. Then the two sides celebrated in a banquet that went on until morning.

  The Russians installed their hand-picked officials in administrative offices, but after they went home the Lithuanians kicked them out again.

  The following summer the Russians came back and fought the battle once more. This time the Lithuanian militia was better prepared; after five hours of stalemate, the battle was called off. Another banquet followed; the next day, full of good fellowship, the two sides agreed to make the Battle of Vilnius an annual event under tournament rules.

  Over the next few years a number of European countries attempted to settle their differences in formal combats of this kind, but these battles, too, degenerated into sporting events.

  Three years after it began, the worldwide campaign of the Moneyless Society was doing fairly well. The pyramid of organizers was in place, membership was growing, and the profits were enough to support an adequate salary for Stevens.

  In the fifth year, something he should have foreseen began to happen. The moneyless chapters in several large areas organized themselves into nets and made certain products free to members on a limited basis; they also held demonstration meetings in which members displayed their products and gave them away through random drawings.

  These meetings were extremely successful in recruiting new members, but they had an unfortunate consequence: the moneyless society was actually beginning to function in a feeble way, and pressure was being brought on the officers of the corporation to accept goods from the network in lieu of part of their sala
ries and bonuses. It was impossible to resist this pressure without admitting that the corporation was in business for profit, and accordingly Stevens had to attend the demonstration meetings in his area and take part in drawings for staple foods, clothing and other things. Desirable articles were always in short supply, most of the clothing was secondhand, and new items were never available in the right size or style.

  Luckily he had other enterprises that were paying better, including the happiness counseling centers, now in more than fifty major cities.

  While he was trying to make up his mind whether to get out of the Palladino business before his dwindling payments vanished altogether, he took Kim, then eight, to one of the demonstration meetings. It was in a large room full of people milling about in the aisles between the rows of tables. After the usual delays, a man jumped up on the platform at the end of the hall and said, “Welcome, gentlemen and ladies, to the Senzasoldi Meeting. I am proud to see so many of you here tonight; this is by far our most successful meeting, and we have some wonderful prizes for you!” He turned and gestured to an assistant, who removed the sheet from one of the draped objects on the platform.

  “This is our Yamaha baby grand, worth approximately two hundred thousand lire! Here we have a living room suite by Alberghetti—sofa, three chairs, and coffee table. The retail value is seventy-five thousand lire. This is our Hyundai holo, it sells for ten thousand lire, isn’t it a beauty? And at the tables, as you see, we have fruits and vegetables, staples, preserved meats, clothing for the whole family, handmade jewelry and many other items. Now, gentlemen and ladies, for the first hour we want you just to walk around and inspect all this fine merchandise. At first you may think you want everything! But take your time, decide what you really want, make out your request slips. Then, at the end of that time, place your request, slips on the tables. When everyone has had a chance to make their selections, drawings will be held and the results announced.”

  Afterward, when they were walking to the ice-cream store, he asked her what she thought of the demonstration.

  “I think it’s silly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if everything is free and you don’t have to work, why should you?”

  “Well, there’s Kant’s categorical imperative. He said that if you think there’s something everybody should do, then you should do it too, because you’re part of everybody. Then if enough people agreed about what everyone should do, they would all do it and the world would be a better place.”

  “What does categorical mean?”

  “Kategorisch in German. It means absolute, and imperatif means something you have to do, not sometimes or maybe, but absolutely, all the time.”

  She thought about it, head down as they walked along the pavement. “Mother says giving everything away can’t work.”

  “And she may be right. It has never worked before, but after all, nothing ever works until it works.”

  “That’s silly!” Her head came up; she broke into laughter and put her arm through his. “Oh, Daddy, you’re so funny.”

  He had answered as he had in order to tease her, because he enjoyed these games with his daughter, but later he began to think of something Palladino had written: “If young people at the beginnings of their careers had to choose between being indentured to an uncaring master or doing something for the good of mankind, how many would choose the master?”

  One morning Stevens’ computer told him, “A friend of Benno’s called. He will call again at two.”

  “Benno” was the name of a contact in Rome when Stevens was a professional assassin. Since then he had changed his name and identity several times, but he had always known they could find him if they wanted him.

  He canceled his appointments for the afternoon and sat by the holo. At two-fifteen the computer said, “Call from a friend of Benno’s.”

  “Put him on.”

  The tube lighted up with the face of a computer simulation, a red-haired woman who smiled and said, “A friend of Benno’s would like to give you a message, Signor Kauffman.”

  “What is the message?”

  “He would very much like to talk to you about matters of common interest. If you will kindly go to the Trattoria Pozzi in the Piazza San Matteo at three o’clock tomorrow, the meeting can take place there. Is it understood?”

  “Understood,” said Stevens.

  25

  “What are you going to do?” Julie asked. It was five minutes later; they were sitting in her sun room surrounded by glossy green plants; Julie, with a gray cardigan draped about her shoulders, was leaning forward, cupping her elbows in her hands.

  “I don’t know. If I refuse, they will retaliate. If I consent, that might be almost as bad, because then they will know how I can be manipulated in the future. The only thing I am sure of is that we can’t run and hide.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not now. They will be watching, and they would take that as a provocation. Perhaps later.”

  Julie stood up and began to walk back and forth. “This is insane. You can’t risk anything happening to Kim.”

  “Or to you, either, but the question is, which risk is greater.”

  “How can you be so damned calm about it?”

  “It’s because I am a soulless robot.”

  She came to him and put her arms around him; Stevens’ heartbeat seemed very loud to him. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll decide tomorrow.”

  Just before three o’clock he entered the Trattoria. There was an empty table at the back; he sat down and ordered tea. Over a newspaper which he had brought with him, he watched the entrance. At a quarter after, a small balding man in a green blouse entered and came toward his table.

  “I am Benno’s friend,” he said, and gestured toward the vacant chair. “May I?”

  “Please.”

  The waiter came; the small man ordered whisky-soda. He said, “I represent a group of investors who are a little concerned about this man Palladino. They are not alarmed, you understand, it is just a matter of prudence. They would like you to withdraw from his organization and have nothing more to do with it. They ask you this favor.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Be reasonable. If we had your daughter and we ordered you to kill someone—perhaps an old associate—what would you do?”

  Stevens was silent. The waiter brought the whisky and went away.

  “You know the answer, you don’t have to tell me. Well, don’t you suppose we have other professionals who would do the same thing? And, after all, who knows if they would really die for it, under those circumstances?”

  “That might depend on whether the symbionts consider them more valuable members of society than Palladino. Another consideration is that if the symbionts did kill these professionals, they would quite likely kill those who transmitted their orders.”

  The small man shrugged, looking at the table.

  Stevens said, “I am prepared to make you a counterproposal.”

  The small man’s lips set primly. “You are not in a position to do anything but what you are told to do.”

  “Hear me out, anyway. You must be aware that the policy being pursued by your employers is stupid. The day of death threats is over.”

  The small man listened without expression, looking down at the table. He had not touched his whisky.

  “Sooner or later,” said Stevens, “they will have to make good on these threats, and each time they do so, they will lose an agent. You and I will be among those who are gone.”

  He waited. After a while the small man murmured, “That is not up to me.”

  “No,” Stevens said, “but you can give a message to your control, and he can pass it up the line if he chooses.”

  “Yes?”

  “Say that I will comply with their request unconditionally. It will take a little time to arrange the details, perhaps two or three months. Du
ring this period, if they decide to withdraw the request, they can let me know through you.”

  The small man looked up and raised his eyebrows. “And why should they do that?”

  “In recognition of a valuable suggestion, which I will now make. Force is no longer a useful instrument in politics. There is another one that is almost equally powerful.”

  The small man curled his lip. “Yes? And what is that?”

  “Public ridicule.”

  They talked for a little longer; then Stevens went home to his wife and child.

  “What good will that do?” Julie asked.

  “None, perhaps. In any event, I am complying with their order and we are safe for the present. There are two things I’m hoping for. The first is that they will not approach me again because they see me as possibly recalcitrant, and because there are others who are more pliable. The second is that they will actually adopt my very sensible suggestion to give up the use of force. Then they may get out of the habit of thinking in those terms, and that would be very good for us.”

  “But you took such a risk!”

  “In the long run, the most dangerous thing is not to risk anything.”

  As he had expected, Stevens did not hear again from Benno’s friend. He proceeded with his plan to divest himself of his holdings in the Palladino corporations, and was finally able to sell his shares at a satisfactory profit. He flew to Genoa to see Palladino, and told him what he was doing but not why.

  “My dear friend, ‘personal reasons’?” Palladino said. “I hope there is no illness—?”

  “No, nothing like that, but I need time for myself—time to understand myself. Good-bye, Maestro.” They embraced in the Italian manner, and Stevens went home with a feeling of intense relief. The time had been nearly ripe to get out of this venture, anyhow. The fact that his former masters seemed to be taking it seriously did not impress him: they could be wrong as often as other people, or perhaps a little oftener.