by Kris Neville
For lucidity, it had been a nonpareil presentation. Everything had been fitted into its proper place; divergent actions had been shown to draw the thesis into proper perspective. Psychological rationalization had achieved its greatest triumph.
It was met with stony silence.
After an uncomfortable period, the Director said, “Ah . . . quite—Most ingenious. Oh, very fine indeed. A true masterpiece. But—”
“Surely—?” the Author said, looking around him at flinty profiles. “Surely, gentlemen—”
“Quite good.”
“Astonishingly fine.”
“However . . . it seems, perhaps . . . I mean—”
“Yes, don’t you think it’s going it a bit too strong?” The Author shook his head slowly. “Gentlemen, modesty forbids me to speak out on the obvious merits of this solution. But I think the facts themselves present such a preponderance of weight to it that only a dizzard could fail to see in it the hand of one of the greatest Artistic geniuses in our generation.”
“I’m afraid it’s such a sordid play, it demands a sordid ending,” said the Director.
“But that’s the whole point—it doesn’t!”
“Really, whatever effect you’ve built up,” the Director said, “would be destroyed. I’m afraid that’s the way we feel about it.”
“I see it,” the Author said calmly. “I see it all now, very clearly. Say no more. You, sir, are throwing me to these wolves.” He waved at the backers, and his voice became indignant. “Having despaired, cravenly, of success, you think to ingratiate yourself with these Philistines and disown all affiliation with true Art. You, sir, cannot possess the moral courage of a beast. Knowing that Art’s breeding ground is opposition, at the first sign of it, you desert the banner. One, in short, sir, as I remarked so aptly in my Play, cannot have enough contempt for that sort of thing. But I bear you no malice, sir, holding small minds beneath my notice.”
“Now. Now.”
“While the ending of yours is everywhere admirable—”
“You see, we have already consulted a Play-doctor.”
“Ah ha! Anticipating a corpse, you have summoned a scavenger. Finding no corpse, to salvage your self-esteem you desire to provide one.”
“Please, in fairness—”
“You don’t quite understand.”
“The situation—”
“Bah!” said the Author. “I shall never again affiliate myself with you in whatsoever a capacity.”
“True.”
“That is very likely.”
“While regrettable, that appears as a definite possibility at the moment.”
“I really think,” the Director said, “your idea is fine. But, under the circumstances—”
“Art does not recognize adversity, nor its allies.”
“What we want to say is, as fine as your idea is, we’re sure the Critics would not approve.”
“Yes, good as it is, it could be a target for attack.”
“The fact of the matter is, whatever you do, the Critics will be sure to pan it.”
“You force us to tell you the unpleasant truth,” the Director said. “You see, some of your remarks about them have got back to the Critics. Hereinafter, I’m afraid, nothing you write will meet with an enthusiastic reception.”
“And while it is too bad that we simply can’t permit your name to kill the gate, we really think the Play-doctor has a better idea anyway.”
“And it’s cheaper; we won’t have to repair any of the settings.”
“And it’ll suck ’em in like a vacuum.”
When he had gone, the Director let out a long sigh. “Such a pity; he’s a genius, you know.”
“Terribly sorry.”
“Awfully hard on him.”
“But after all, we must think of ourselves.”
“Now,” the Director said, “if you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll call in our advertising man, and then we can get to work on the new ending,” The advertising man came immediately. He was full of bounce. He walked briskly to the center of the room. “How do you do?” he said, bobbing his head in the direction of the backers. “I’ve already been briefed. No sense in wasting your time and mine going over it again. This is an ending that will shock people to their very bones. We intend to play it up that way, emphasize the horror angle. Not give away much of the actual ending, you understand, but just enough hints to whet the appetite.
“As you know, it will not be Art. But we know all about Art, don’t we? It will be—frankly—blood and thunder. There will be plenty of excitement. We will aim at the masses, the little fellow in the galleries.”
“Let the Critics go hang.”
“Nobody reads them.”
“We’ve got an ending that’ll suck ’em in like a vacuum.”
“Exactly,” said the advertising man.
“Now, if you have no suggestions, I will show you the first draft of our literature. You see here, the red border—”
The clients were buzzing with rumors until the millions of casting offices and the millions of reception rooms gave off a sound not unlike that given off by a giant hive crammed with angry bees.
In one of the offices there were five clients. The sixth materialized from the stage. He stepped down from the exit platform.
“Whew!” he said. “That was a rough one.” He signed in. “Please!” he said. “No more like that one!”
The clerk said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
The sixth client crossed the room and joined the others. “It’s rough out there,” he said. “And I think it’s going to get worse.”
“Then you’ve been on stage for some time?” one of the others said sympathetically. “You haven’t heard what’s going to happen?”
“No. What?” the sixth said. “Starting tomorrow,” the client said ominously in answer, “all the jobs go on extra pay.”
The sixth client blanched. “No!” he hissed in unbelief, and then, hoarsely, lie whispered. “You mean it’s going to get that bad? I don’t believe it!”
“But it’s true, though. I know for sure. I was in the wings just a little bit ago, and you know what?”
“No,” the sixth said weakly. “What?”
“All the repair men are gone!” the client announced in triumph.
“That can’t be right,” said the sixth, shaking his head in numb puzzlement. “They can’t take them away. Why, if they did, the whole stage would begin to fall apart.”
“That,” said yet another client, “seems to be the whole point.” lie lowered his voice. “In fact, I’ve been told in strictest confidence by a man who should know that they’re even calling in a wrecker crew, too. To help it along!”
“And the ads! You should see them! They’re really not giving out all the details of the ending either. It’s enough to make your flesh crawl.”
“You really mean . . . you mean, they’re actually going . . . no. That would be the cheapest kind of sensationalism! I can’t believe it. They couldn’t expect us to go through that. They just couldn’t. If nothing else, we’ve got our reputations to think of!”
“Oh, but you haven’t heard the worst—”
“I . . . I don’t think I can stand any more. It’s positively fiendish already. I’d rather not know—“We don’t have to put up with it! Consider our Art. I tell you, no self-respecting Actor ought to stand for it!”
One said, “That’s why it’s all going to be extra pay from now on.” Another asked, plaintively, “But what can we do?” And a third said, “After all, it is good money, you’ve got to admit that.”
The sixth slumped down morosely. “I’m beat,” lie said. “Let’s face it—we’re all beat. They’ve got us and they know it. We’ve got to work.”
The clerk’s buzzer sounded, and the clients all rushed his desk and jostled each other at the railing.
After a moment, the clerk called out a name. The one client remained; the others slunk back to their seats.
�
��Can’t you give me a hint?” the client asked the clerk.
The clerk shook his head; he reached over and pulled forward his pay roll sheet.
The others watched closely as the client signed out.
“Well,” one of them said, “I wonder what that poor devil’s going to be?”
The rest looked blank. “I’m afraid to guess,” one finally answered.
“Maybe he’s going to be an insect of some kind. Those are pretty good roles, usually.”
“Or maybe a fish, or a bird—or even a cat or a dog.”
“He wouldn’t mind what’s going to happen then. Not so much, I mean. It doesn’t mean so much to the background pieces.”
Another client cleared his throat. “But imagine being born right now as a—”
“Don’t! Please, have you no mercy? It’s too horrible to think about. Don’t even mention it.”
One of the other clients jumped up.: “That does it! That does it! They can’t fire me for that sort of thing! I’ve got my pride. I don’t need a job that bad!”
He stalked out of the office.
After he had gone, the rest lunched forward with relief. It made their chances of getting work just hat much better.
The Director looked across his desk at the Lawyer.
The Lawyer cleared his throat. “No,” he said, waving his hand in a nervous gesture. “No, we aren’t legally liable. That’s taken care of. You see, the Actors sign out of their own free will. We’re not responsible, in that sense.”
“Well,” the Director said, “I’m glad to hear that, anyway. At least that’s one thing solved. But now, about this union business. Could we slap an injunction on them?”
The Lawyer frowned. “Frankly, I doubt it. You can’t force a man to act.”
“Well, then, if we go on keeping it quiet, could they sue us?”
“They could. But, then, if you didn’t keep it quiet, you couldn’t get Actors, I’m afraid. How much longer will the Play run?”
“Not long.”
“In that case,” the Lawyer said, “I’d risk it, if I were you. We can probably beat the suit. Just go on keeping it quiet. Don’t let it leak out.”
“Yes, we must keep it quiet.”
“We can’t have the union strike.”
“We can’t have the Actors quit.”
“Not while were sucking them in like a vacuum.”
Three uniformed men stood by the exit platform.
“Get ready,” the clerk said. “Please he comes—”
“No!” the clerk corrected sharply, after rechecking his records. “This one’s O.K. He was a sparrow.”
The Actor materialized. He looked dazed. Without a word, he walked out of the office.
There was a wait.
“No!” the clerk said excitedly. “This is it! Here comes one that was a human.”
The Actor materialized. He struck out blindly. One of the uniformed men went down and out.
With a blood curdling shriek, the Actor bolted for the corridor.
“Stop him! Stop him!”
A guard threw himself out of the way just in time and then started off in hot pursuit. His feet pounded hollowly.
A second guard saw the raving Actor coming. He made a flying tackle, and the Actor went down solidly.
The guard sat on him. The Actor was still screaming disconsolately.
The second guard came up; he was panting. He shook his head sadly.
“These horror plays,” he said, “are sure tough on Actors.”
THE END
SEEDS OF FUTURITY
The world was getting tired of its own brilliance and nobody knew any longer where humanity was heading. But Edward Barnett alone cared enough to do anything about it, so he invented those . . .
EDWARD BARNETT removed all the charts from the control room; he placed them along with his more than six hundred books into the evacuation chamber. He closed the inner door and pulled the lever marked “A.” A tiny section of the hull slid back and the released pressure swept all the written material out into space.
Edward Barnett turned, walked slowly along the corridor to the landing bubble, entered it, and prepared to ease the ship down. If he wrecked the craft in the attempt, it alone would remain to stir the curiosity of his children. There was no written record anywhere aboard. Now.
He swung the ship into the classic descending spiral. After a long time, air friction began to pull at the ship with steel fingers. He maneuvered it with unsteady hands, and it bucked uncertainly. Finally it touched the ground, full astern, quaked, and rested. He clambered to the rear, his heart straining under the strong, new gravity.
One by one he carried his children out from the ship and placed them far beyond the blast radius. It took him a very long time, for he was old and frequently had to stop to lean against the steel hull to catch his breath. At the last, he worked with frantic speed, trying to complete his task before his children recovered from the anaesthesia he had injected into their quarters after he had pumped out the suspension gas.
Eventually he unloaded the last of his cargo: they all lay naked in the sun. He remounted the ladder of the ship wearily. At the port he turned for a final look, and they seemed asleep there at the very edge of the cool, green forest. For a moment his resolve wavered, and he wanted to run to them.
He turned to enter the ship. For if he stayed, knowledge stayed with him . . .
IN THE DAYS of Edward Barnett’s childhood, the adult-peopled world felt neither one way nor the other about formal, academic training. Perhaps they held those who studied The Philosophy somewhat in awe, as beings almost beyond worldly understanding, but otherwise they were exceedingly neutral, if indifferent would be too strong a term. Consequently there was precious little learning abroad in the land. Whatever education a child achieved, aside from the simplest elements of reading imparted by a robot of limited scope, was due solely to individual inclination and initiative. Few youths, it scarcely need be added, were particularly adept at verbal gymnastics.
The young Edward Barnett was, however, an exception; he soon far outstripped his robot tutor and was roaming freely in the cavernous ancestral library. But lacking direction, he did little more than filter great numbers of huge tomes through the wide screenwork of his mind. At the age of fourteen he was an exceedingly widely read young gentleman, without an opinion of his own on anything.
He was frail of form, delicate. His huge eyes roved incessantly, seeing minutest details. His body surged with a high and unquenchable order of nervous energy that, in former days, was termed intellectual curiosity.
Eventually even his parents noted that he had great promise; such, in fact, was their enthusiasm that one day they called him to them.
“Son.” his mother said, looking very wise, “we—your father and I—recommend that you study The Philosophy. Accordingly, we have interviewed Dr. Burton who has kindly consented to supervise your future training.”
Thereafter, for three years, he did study The Philosophy. But, being of unusual discernment and rare intellectual capacity, he abandoned it. And if he derived any benefit at all from that period it was this: that, taking a broad view, the hunt for knowledge is, in itself, a futile thing.
To verify that it was only necessary for him to look about at the world.
There were the physical and social sciences, or, more properly, there was the Leviathan of unorganized facts. There was a baffling array of data; there were giant stands of virgin statistics; there was chaos. No one could even be sure where past experimenters had left off; no one knew in which direction lay the unexplored fields and unseen vistas. In fact, in any scientific field formerly considered a meaningful specialty, a lifetime of study was needed to push forward to the frontier: all energy expended in encompassing the known, no residue remaining to supplement it.
THE specialties fell prey to a particularly insidious type of spontaneous decay. They became rotten with knowledge and burst like a ripe fruit scattering its seeds, or,
perhaps more exactly, like incendiary bombs spewing flaming fragments, and the fragments, in turn, passing critical mass, themselves exploding. In the end there remained the dead cinders of once bright fields of human endeavor.
It was these sterile things that the lone research drone examined. They had one all sufficient virtue: they were small, and, at least, a man could tell, in a limited way, where he was going, although without knowing whether he was blazing a trail or following one. And these rare students, these latter-day scientists, continued, largely through inertia, or perhaps clouded sense of destiny, to explore fruitless bypaths, not seeing to what use the material discovered could be put, not divining what relation it bore to the vast accrual of kindred knowledge, not even realizing that it was only a further contribution to the process of fragmentation that had brought men to their knees before the incomprehensible.
And, at length, the student would emerge from the academic burrow to brandish before the satiated sight of mankind a gargantuan study of the effect of increased calcium content on Kentucky Blue Grass over 27 generations, the sex life of a sub-species of the tsetse fly, or a cultural analysis of the natives of the upper Ubangi during the fourth century, B.C., that would be stored on a sagging shelf to mould away, unread, unseen, unknown.
THE mathematicians were little better off. They frittered their time away on perpetually new systems—if they were new—to describe exactly the movement of billiard balls traveling over tremendously contorted surfaces. They amused themselves by concocting numerous expressions of fantastic worlds, of no practical application, where none, or few, commonly accepted axioms applied. At length there were worlds upon worlds, upon worlds. They derived the mathematical relationship between the curvature of light and the growth of the date palm. They pounced upon any series of phenomena no matter how ill-related in reality, and ordered them into one formula.
And, of course, the libraries were degenerate, shot through with the most colossal disorganization. Even libraries that attempted to accumulate material only of limited scope were eventually inundated by the paper flood. No one knew how much was known or even where to look for it.