PUBLIC OPINION TWOBeing an excerpt from a conversation between Mrs. Fellacia Gordon, (Citizen, white female, age thirty-eight, occupation housewife, residence 701-45 West 305 Street, New York, U. S. A., Earth) and Mrs. Gwen Brandon (Citizen, oriental female, age thirty-six, occupation housewife, residence 701-21 West 313 Street, New York, U. S. A., Earth) on a Minimart bench midway between the two homes, in the year of the Confederation two hundred and ten, on May sixteenth, afternoon.
PUBLIC OPINION TWO
Being an excerpt from a conversation between Mrs. Fellacia Gordon, (Citizen, white female, age thirty-eight, occupation housewife, residence 701-45 West 305 Street, New York, U. S. A., Earth) and Mrs. Gwen Brandon (Citizen, oriental female, age thirty-six, occupation housewife, residence 701-21 West 313 Street, New York, U. S. A., Earth) on a Minimart bench midway between the two homes, in the year of the Confederation two hundred and ten, on May sixteenth, afternoon.
MRS. GORDON: They've all been talking about it, how those poor things have to work and work until they drop, and they don't even get paid for it or anything.MRS. BRANDON: What do you mean, don't get paid? Of course they get paid. You have to get paid when you work, don't you?MRS. GORDON: Not those poor things. They're slaves.MRS. BRANDON: Slaves? Like in the olden times?MRS. G.: That's what they say. Everybody's talking about it.MRS. B.: Well. Why don't they do something about it, then, the ones that are like that? I mean, there's always something you can do.MRS. G.: They're just being forced to work until they absolutely drop, is what I hear. And all for a bunch of people who just lord it over them with guns and everything. You see, these beings—they're green, not like us, but they have feelings, too—MRS. B.: Of course they do, Fellacia.MRS. G.: Well. They don't have much education, hardly know anything. So when people with guns come in, you see, there just isn't anything they can do about it.MRS. B.: Why are they let, then?MRS. G.: Who, the people with guns? Well, nobody lets them, not just like that. It's just like we only found out about it now.MRS. B.: I didn't hear a word on the news.MRS. G.: You listen tonight and you'll hear a word, Gwen dear.MRS. B.: Oh, my. That sounds like there's something up. Now, what have you been doing?MRS. G.: Don't you think it's right, for these poor beings? I mean, no pay and nothing at all but work, work, work until they absolutely drop?MRS. B.: What have you been doing? I mean, what can any one person do? Of course it's terrible and all that, but—MRS. G.: We talked it over. I mean the group I belong to, you know. On Wednesday. Because all of us had heard something about it, you see, and so we brought it up and discussed it. And it's absolutely true.MRS. B.: How can you be sure of a thing like that?MRS. G.: We found out—MRS. B.: When it isn't even on the news or anything.MRS. G.: We found out that people have been talking from other places, too. Downtown and even in the suburbs.MRS. B.: Oh. Then it must be—but what can you do, after all? It's not as if we were in the government or anything.MRS. G.: Don't you worry about that. There's something you can do and it's not hard, either. And it has an effect. A definite effect, they say.MRS. B.: You mean collecting money? To send them?MRS. G.: Money won't do them any good. No. What we need is the government, to do something about this.MRS. B.: It's easy to talk.MRS. G.: And we can get the government to do something, too. If there are enough of us—and there will be.MRS. B.: I should think anybody who hears about these people, Fellacia—MRS. G.: Well, they're not people, exactly.MRS. B.: What difference does that make? They need help, don't they? And we can give them help. If you really have an idea?MRS. G.: We discussed it all. And we've been writing letters.MRS. B.: Letters? Just letters?MRS. G.: If a Senator gets enough letters, he has to do something, doesn't he? Because the letters are from the people who vote for him, you see?MRS. B.: But that means a lot of letters.MRS. G.: We've had everybody sending postcards. Fifteen or twenty each. That mounts up awfully fast, Gwen dear.MRS. B.: But just postcards—MRS. G.: And telephone calls, where that's possible. And visits. And starting even more talk everywhere. Just everywhere.MRS. B.: Do you really think it's going to work? I mean, it seems like so little.MRS. G.: It's going to work. It's got to.MRS. B.: What are they working at? I mean the—the slaves.MRS. G.: They're being forced, Gwen dear. Absolutely forced to work.MRS. B.: Yes, dear, but what at? What do they do?MRS. G.: I don't see where that makes any difference. Actually, nobody has been very clear on the details. But the details don't matter, do they, Gwen dear? The important thing is, we have to do something.MRS. B.: You're right, Fellacia. And I'll—MRS. G.: Of course I'm right.MRS. B.: I'll start right in with the postcards. A lot of them.MRS. G.: And don't forget to tell other people. As many as you can manage. We need all the help we can get—and so do the slaves.
MRS. GORDON: They've all been talking about it, how those poor things have to work and work until they drop, and they don't even get paid for it or anything.
MRS. BRANDON: What do you mean, don't get paid? Of course they get paid. You have to get paid when you work, don't you?
MRS. GORDON: Not those poor things. They're slaves.
MRS. BRANDON: Slaves? Like in the olden times?
MRS. G.: That's what they say. Everybody's talking about it.
MRS. B.: Well. Why don't they do something about it, then, the ones that are like that? I mean, there's always something you can do.
MRS. G.: They're just being forced to work until they absolutely drop, is what I hear. And all for a bunch of people who just lord it over them with guns and everything. You see, these beings—they're green, not like us, but they have feelings, too—
MRS. B.: Of course they do, Fellacia.
MRS. G.: Well. They don't have much education, hardly know anything. So when people with guns come in, you see, there just isn't anything they can do about it.
MRS. B.: Why are they let, then?
MRS. G.: Who, the people with guns? Well, nobody lets them, not just like that. It's just like we only found out about it now.
MRS. B.: I didn't hear a word on the news.
MRS. G.: You listen tonight and you'll hear a word, Gwen dear.
MRS. B.: Oh, my. That sounds like there's something up. Now, what have you been doing?
MRS. G.: Don't you think it's right, for these poor beings? I mean, no pay and nothing at all but work, work, work until they absolutely drop?
MRS. B.: What have you been doing? I mean, what can any one person do? Of course it's terrible and all that, but—
MRS. G.: We talked it over. I mean the group I belong to, you know. On Wednesday. Because all of us had heard something about it, you see, and so we brought it up and discussed it. And it's absolutely true.
MRS. B.: How can you be sure of a thing like that?
MRS. G.: We found out—
MRS. B.: When it isn't even on the news or anything.
MRS. G.: We found out that people have been talking from other places, too. Downtown and even in the suburbs.
MRS. B.: Oh. Then it must be—but what can you do, after all? It's not as if we were in the government or anything.
MRS. G.: Don't you worry about that. There's something you can do and it's not hard, either. And it has an effect. A definite effect, they say.
MRS. B.: You mean collecting money? To send them?
MRS. G.: Money won't do them any good. No. What we need is the government, to do something about this.
MRS. B.: It's easy to talk.
MRS. G.: And we can get the government to do something, too. If there are enough of us—and there will be.
MRS. B.: I should think anybody who hears about these people, Fellacia—
MRS. G.: Well, they're not people, exactly.
MRS. B.: What difference does that make? They need help, don't they? And we can give them help. If you really have an idea?
MRS. G.: We discussed it all. And we've been writing letters.
MRS. B.: Letters? Just letters?
MRS. G.: If a Senator gets enough letters, he has to do something, doesn't he? Because the letters are from the people who vote for him, you see?
MRS. B.: But that means a lot of letters.
MRS. G.: We've had everybody sending postcards. Fifteen or twenty each. That mounts up awfully fast, Gwen dear.
MRS. B.: But just postcards—
MRS. G.: And telephone calls, where that's possible. And visits. And starting even more talk everywhere. Just everywhere.
MRS. B.: Do you really think it's going to work? I mean, it seems like so little.
MRS. G.: It's going to work. It's got to.
MRS. B.: What are they working at? I mean the—the slaves.
MRS. G.: They're being forced, Gwen dear. Absolutely forced to work.
MRS. B.: Yes, dear, but what at? What do they do?
MRS. G.: I don't see where that makes any difference. Actually, nobody has been very clear on the details. But the details don't matter, do they, Gwen dear? The important thing is, we have to do something.
MRS. B.: You're right, Fellacia. And I'll—
MRS. G.: Of course I'm right.
MRS. B.: I'll start right in with the postcards. A lot of them.
MRS. G.: And don't forget to tell other people. As many as you can manage. We need all the help we can get—and so do the slaves.
The days passed and the training went on, boring and repetitious as each man tried to hammer into the obdurate head of an Albert just enough about his own particular section of machinery so that he could run it capably and call for help in case of emergencies. And, though every man on Fruyling's World disliked every moment of the job, the job was necessary, and went on: though they, too, were slaves to a great master, none thought of rebelling. For the name of the master was necessity, and economic law, and from that rule there are no rebels. The days passed evenly and the work went slowly on.
And then the training was finished. The new Alberts went on a daily work-schedule, supervised only by the spy-sets and an occasional, deliberately random visit from a master. The visits were necessary, too: the Alberts had not the sophistication to react to a spy-set, and personal supervision was needed to convince them they were still being watched, they still had to work. A master came, a master saw them working: that, they could understand.
That—and the punishments. These went under the name of discipline, and had three grades. The Belbis beams administered all three, by means of a slight readjustment in the ray. It was angled as widely as possible, and the dispersed beam, carefully controlled, acted directly on the nervous system.
Cadnan, troubled by Marvor's threats and by his own continuing thoughts of Dara, was a trifle absent-minded and a little slower than standard. He drew punishment twice, both times in the first grade only. Albin administered both punishments, explaining to his partner Derbis that he didn't mind doing it—and, besides, someone had to.
Sometimes Dodd thought of Albin giving out discipline, and of all of his life on Fruyling's World, in terms of a sign he had once seen. It had been a joke, he remembered that clearly, but it was no more a joke now than the words which flashed nearly ignored at the back of his mind. Once or twice he had imagined this new sign hanging luridly over the entire planet, posted there in the name of profit, in the name of necessity, in the name of economic law.
Everything not compulsory is forbidden
Everything not compulsory is forbidden
The Alberts had to be trained. The Alberts had to be disciplined. The men had to work with them. The men were forbidden to leave the planet.
And who were the slaves?
That, Dodd told himself cloudily, was far from an easy decision.
Everything not compulsory was forbidden. Even the parties were forbidden ... though it was always possible to find one. Dodd had avoided them completely, afraid now of another breakdown, this time in public. He had not seen Greta or called her (though he had her number now): he had stayed alone as much as possible.
He had no idea what had happened to him: and that added to his fright and to his fear of a recurrence.
But Albin, he knew, was having his fun, and so were others. The older men, it seemed, devoted themselves to running the place, to raising their families and giving good advice, to keeping production up and costs down.
The younger men had fun.
Dodd had thought of marriage. (Now, it was no more than a memory, a hope he might once have had. Now, the end had come: there was no marriage. There was no life. Only the idea of hope remained.) He had never had the vestige of a real female image in his mind. Sometimes he had told himself to be more out-going, to meet more women—but, then, how did a man meet women?
He had fun.
And Dodd had never enjoyed that particular brand of fun—Albin's brand.
There was a Social, an acceptable party that would get him into no trouble, in Building One. Dodd felt like lying down and letting the day drain out of him into the comforting mattress there in his room. He felt like relaxing in his own company—and that, he saw suddenly, was going to mean drinking.
He could see the future unroll before him. He could see the first drink, and the tenth. Because drink was an escape, and he needed some escape from the world he was pledged to uphold, the world of slavery.
He could not afford to drink again.
So, naturally, he was getting ready to go to the Social. Albin would be there, undoubtedly, some of the older men would be there—and a scattering of women would be there, too. (He remembered himself thinking, long ago before such a party: Tonight might be the night.) He shaved very carefully, faithful to memory, dressed in the best he could find in his closet, and went out, heading for the elevator.
Tonight might be the night—but it made no difference, not any longer.
The trip to Sub-basement took a few whooshing seconds. He stepped out into a lighted, oil-smelling underground corridor, took a deep breath and headed off through gleaming passages toward another elevator at the far end. Before he reached it he took a turning, and then another: after a magnificently confusing trip through an unmarked labyrinth, he found the elevator that led him up into the right section of Building One. That was no special feat, of course: people had been doing the like ever since the first housing-project days, on pre-Confederation Earth. Dodd never gave it a second thought: his mind was busy.
The phrase had floated to the forefront of his brain again, right behind his eyes, lighting up with a regularity that was almost soothing, almost reassuring.
This is the end.
This is the end.
This is the end.
When the elevator door slid open he was grim-faced, withdrawn, and he stepped out like a threat into a cheerful, brightly dressed crowd of people.
"Here he is!" someone shouted. "I told you he'd be here ... I told you...." Dodd turned but the words weren't meant for him. Down the corridor a knot of men and women was surrounding a new arrival from somewhere else, laughing and talking. As he stepped forward, his eyes still on that celebration, a pathway opened up for him; he was in sober black and he went through the corridor like a pencil-mark down paper, leaving an open trail as he passed.
A girl stopped him before he reached the door of the party room. She stepped directly into his path and he saw her, and his expression began to change, a little at a time, so that his eyes were, for long seconds, happier than his face, and he looked like a young bull-terrier having a birthday party.
"Am I in your way?" the girl said, without budging an inch. She was dressed in a bright green material that seemed to fade so near the glowing happiness of her face. Her hair was brown, a quite ordinary brown, and even in that first second Dodd noticed her hands. They were long and slim, the thumbs pointed outward, and they were clasped at her breast in a pose that should have been mocking, but was only pleasant.
He couldn't think of anything to say. Finally he settled on: "My name's Dodd," as the simplest and quickest way of breaking the ice that surrounded him.
"Very well, then, Mr. Dodd," the girl said—shewouldn'tgo along with polite forms—"am I in your way? Because if I am, I'm terribly sorry."
"You're not in my way at all," Dodd said heavily. "I just—didn't notice you." And that was a lie, but there was nothing else to say. The thousands of words that arranged themselves so neatly into patterns when he was alone had sunk to the very bottom of his suddenly leaden mind, almost burying the flashing sign. He felt as if he were growing extra fingers and ears.
"I noticed you," the girl said. "And I said to myself, I said: 'What can a person as grim as all that be doing at a Social as gay as all this?' So I stopped you to see if I could find out."
Dodd licked his lips. "I don't know," he said. "I thought maybe I'd meet somebody. I just thought I'd like to come."
"Well," the girl said, "you've met somebody. And now what?"
Dodd found some words, not many but enough. "I haven't met you yet," he said in what he hoped was a bright tone. "What's your name?"
The girl smiled, and Dodd saw for the first time that she hadn't been smiling before. Her face, in repose, was light enough and to spare; when she smiled, he wanted smoked glasses. "Very well," she said. "My name is Fredericks. Norma Fredericks. And yours is—"
"Dodd," he said. "John Dodd. They call me Johnny."
"All right, John," she said. "You haven't been to many Socials, have you? Because I'd have seen you—I'm at every one I can find time for. You'd be surprised how many that is. Or maybe you wouldn't."
There was no answer to the last half of that, so Dodd backtracked, feeling a shocking relief that she hadn't been to the party at which he and the other girl (whose name he could very suddenly no longer remember) had made fools of themselves. He gave her an answer to the first half of her question. "I haven't been to many Socials, no," he said. "I—" He shrugged and felt mountainous next to her. "I stay by myself, mostly," he said.
"And now you want to meet people," Norma said. "All right, Johnny Dodd—you're going to meet people!" She took him by the arm and half-led, half-dragged him to the door of the party room. Inside, the noise was like a blast of heat, and Dodd stepped involuntarily back. "Now, that's no way to be," Norma said cheerfully, and piloted him somehow inside, past a screaming crew of men and women with disposable glasses in their hands, past an oblivious couple, two couples, four, seven—past mountains and masses of color and noise and drink and singing horribly off-key, not bothersome at all, loud and raucous and somehow, Dodd thought wildly, entirely fitting. This was Norma's element, he told himself, and allowed her to escort him to a far corner of the room, where she sat him down in a chair, said: "Don't go away, don't move," and disappeared.
Dodd sat stock-still while the noise washed over him. People drifted by but nobody so much as looked in his direction, and he saw neither Albin nor that other forgettable girl, for all of which he was profoundly grateful. He hadn't been to a Social since his last mistake, and before that it had been—almost two years, he realized with wonder. He'd forgotten just how much of everything it could be. He devoted a couple of minutes to catching his breath, and then he just watched people, drifting, standing, forming new combinations every second. He thought (once) he saw Albin in the middle of a crowd near the door, but he told himself he was probably mistaken. There was no one else he recognized. He didn't grow tired, but sitting and watching, he found, was exhilarating enough.
In another minute, he was sure Norma wasn't going to come back. Probably she had found someone else, he told himself in what he thought was a reasonable manner. After all, he wasn't a very exciting person: she had probably started off to get him a drink or something, with the best of intentions, and met someone more interesting on the way.
He had just decided that, after all, he couldn't reallyblameher, when she appeared at his side.
"The punch," she announced, "is authentic. It is totally authentic. One glass and you forget everything. Two, and you remember. Three—I don't know what happens with the third glass yet. But I'm going to find out."
He looked at her hands. She was holding two disposable glasses, full of purple liquid. He took one from her and got up. "Well," he said, "cheers."
"Also down the hatch," she said. "And any other last year's slang you happen to have around and want to get rid of." She lifted the glass. "Here's to you, John Dodd," she said, and tipped the glass at her lips—just that. He had never before seen anyone drink in just that way, or drink so quickly. In seconds, before he had taken a sip (he was so amazed, watching her), the glass was empty. "Whoosh," she said clearly. "That ought to hold me for at least six minutes."
Then she noticed that he hadn't started his own drink yet, so he took a cautious sip. It tasted like grape juice, like wine, like—he couldn't identify the ingredients, and besides he was watching her face. He took another sip.
"That's the way," Norma approved. "Soon you'll be drinking with the big boys."
And whether she was making fun of him or not hardly mattered. He felt careless: maybe the drink had done it. "Why did you pick me?" he heard himself say. "Why did you stop me, out of all those people?"
She hesitated, and when she spoke it sounded like the truth, perhaps too much like the truth to be true. "You looked like a puppy," she said seriously. "Like a puppy trying to act fierce. Maybe I've always had a weakness for dumb animals: no offense meant, John Dodd."
The idea of being offended hadn't occurred to him, but he tried it out experimentally and discovered he didn't like it. Before he could say anything, though, Norma had become energetic again.
"Enough analysis," she said abruptly, so strongly that he wasn't sure what she meant by the words. "Sit down—sit down." He felt for the chair behind him and sat. Norma cast a keen eye over the nearby crowds, spotted an empty chair and went off for it. "Later," she told him, when she had placed herself next to him, "we can join the crowd. For now, let's get—let's get better acquainted. Johnny."
"That's the first time you've called me Johnny," he said.
"So it is," she said. Her face was a mask: and then it lightened. "What do you work at, Johnny?"
"I'm in Building Three," he said: it was easier to answer her than anatomize the confusions he felt. "I work with smelting and quality control—you know." He took another sip of his drink, and found to his surprise that it was more than half gone.
"With the Alberts," she said. "I know."
He thought he read her look correctly. "I don't like it either," he told her earnestly. "But somebody has to do it. I think—"
"You don't have to get defensive," Norma said. "Relax. Enjoy yourself. Join the party. Did I look at you as if you were a murderer of small children?"
"I just—don't like it," he said carefully. "I—well, there isn't anything I can do about it, is there?"
"I wouldn't know," she said, and then (had she made a decision? He couldn't tell) she went on: "I'm in Psych, myself."
"Psych? You?"
"Psych, me," she said. "So I'm every bit as responsible as you are. And maybe the reason there's nothing to do is—is because it's already been done."
"Already been done?" Dodd swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp and leaned toward her. Norma looked down at her own empty glass.
"There are rumors," she said. "Frankly, I'd rather they didn't get around. And if I hadn't had too much to drink—or something—I wouldn't even be mentioning them. I'm sorry."
"No," he said, surprising himself. "Tell me. What rumors?"
Norma kept her eyes on her glass. "Nothing," she said, in a new, strained voice.
Dodd remained in the same position, feeling more tense than he could ever remember having felt. "Tell me," he said. "Come on. If you've gone this far—"
"I suppose I have," she said. "I suppose I've gone too far now, haven't I?"
"You've got to tell me."
"Yes," she said. "It's—they say the Confederation knows. I mean knows what we're doing here. Officially. Everything." She dropped the glass then and Dodd stooped ridiculously to pick it up: it lay between their chairs. He felt the blood rushing to his head. There was pounding in his temples. He got the glass and gave it to her but she took it absently, as if she hardly noticed him. "Of course, it's just a rumor," she said in a low voice.
"The people know," Dodd said. "It's out. It's all out. About the slavery. Is that what you mean?"
She nodded. "I'm sorry."
"But it's important—" he began, and stopped. He looked at his glass, still empty. He took a breath, began again. "I work with them. I'm part of it. It's important to me."
"Just as important to me," Norma said. "Believe me, Johnny. I'm responsible, too."
"But you're in Psych," he said. "That's—morale. Nothing more than morale, as far as I know—"
She raised her head and looked him full in the face, her eyes like a bright challenge. Her face was quite sober when she spoke. "I'm in Psych, but it's more than morale, Johnny. We're—always thinking up new ways to keep the little Alberts in their place. Put it that way. Though nobody's really come up with an improvement on the original notion."
"The original notion?"
Now her smile gave light and no heat, a freak of nature. "The original specific," she said. She paused for a second and the mockery in her voice grew more broad. "That old-time religion," she said, drawing the words out like fine, hot wire. "That old-time religion, Johnny Dodd."
The work went on, for Cadnan as well as for the masters. Days passed and he began to improve slightly: he received no further discipline, and he was beginning to settle into a routine. Only thoughts of Dara disturbed him—those, and the presence of Marvor, who was still apparently waiting to make good his incomprehensible threat.
Marvor had said he was going to leave, but he still appeared every evening in the same room. Cadnan had hardly dared to question him, for fear of being drawn into the plan, whatever it was: he could only wait and watch and wish for someone to talk to. But, of course, there was no one.
And then, one day during the first part of his working shift, a master came into the room, the very master who had gone with Cadnan through his training. "You're Cadnan?" he asked.
Cadnan said: "I am Cadnan."
The master beckoned through the open door of Cadnan's working-room, and two more masters appeared, strange ones, leading between them an elder. The elder, Cadnan saw at once, had lived through many matings: the green skin of his arms was turning to silver, and his eye was no longer bright, but dulling fast with age. He looked at the working-room and at the young Albert with blank caution.
"This one is called Gornom," the master said. "He'll be with you when you work. He's going to help you work—you can teach him all he has to know. Just make sure you don't let him handle the buttons until we give you the word. All right?"
Cadnan understood. "All right," he said, and the three masters left the room without more words. The door shut behind them and Gornom visibly relaxed. Yet there was still wariness behind the old eye. "I work in the field," he said after a second. "I am good worker in the field."
Cadnan knew from gossip about the field: that was the place where the metal lay. Alberts worked there, digging it up and bringing it to the buildings where Cadnan and many like him took over the job. He nodded slowly, bending his body from the waist instead of from the neck like the masters, or Marvor. "If you are in the field," he said, "why do you come here? This is not a place for diggers."
"I am brought here," Gornom said. "I am an elder many times. What the masters say, I do. Now they say I come here, and I come."
Cadnan looked doubtful. "You are to work with me?"
"So the masters say." That was unanswerable, and Cadnan accepted it. He flicked a glance at the TV screen which showed him the smelting process, and leaped for the buttons. After a few minutes of action he was finished: there was a slight breathing-space.
"I am to tell you what to do," he said.
Gornom looked grave. "I see what it is you do," he said. "It is a lesson. When you act for the masters, the great machines obey you."
"It is true," Cadnan said.
"This is the lesson," Gornom said slowly, as if it were truly important. "We are shown the machines so that we may learn to be like the machines. When the master tells us what to do, we are to do it. There is nothing else."
Cadnan thought about that. It made sense: it made a structure he could understand, and it made the world a less confusing place. "You have said a truth," he judged at last.
"It is one of many truths," Gornom said. And that was an invitation, Cadnan recognized. He hesitated no more than a second.
"Where may I learn the others?" But Gornom didn't answer, and Cadnan's breathing-space was over. He had to be back at the board, pushing buttons, watching carefully. Gornom stood behind him, peering over his shoulder with a cloudy eye. Neither said a word until the new spell of work was over. Then Cadnan repeated his question.
"It is not for all," Gornom said distantly. "One must be chosen."
"You have come to me," Cadnan said. "You have been sent to me. Is this what you call chosen?"
It was the right answer, perhaps the only right answer. Gornom pretended to consider the matter for a minute, but his mind was already made up. "We are above you, on the floor over yours," he said. "When our work is finished I will take you there."
Cadnan imagined a parade of new truths, a store of knowledge that would lay all his questions to rest and leave him, as after a meal, entirely satisfied. He went back to work and contemplated the first of the truths: he was to be like the machine. He promised himself he would try to imitate the machine, doing only what the masters ordered. And for the rest of that day, indeed, life seemed to make perfect calming sense.
But, after all, Gornom was only an elder and not a master. He could be wrong.
The doubt appeared at the end of the day, but by then Gornom had the younger Albert in tow. They took the elevator up one flight and went to Gornom's room: the novelty of all of this excited Cadnan so that he nearly forgot his new doubts. They shrank perceptibly without disappearing altogether.
Gornom opened the door of the new room. Inside, Cadnan saw six elders, sitting in a circle on the floor. The circle, incomplete, was open toward the door, and all six big eyes were staring at the newcomers. The floor was nearly bare: the leaves had been brushed into mounds that lay in the corners.
Without a word, Gornom sat in the circle and motioned Cadnan to a place beside him. Moving slowly and uncertainly, Cadnan came forward and sat down. There was a second of absolute silence.
One of the other elders said: "You bring a new one to us?"
"I bring a new one," Gornom said.
The other elder, leaning forward from the waist, peered at Cadnan. His eye was larger than normal, and glittering cold. Cadnan, awestruck, neither spoke nor moved, and the elder regarded him for a time and then said abruptly: "Not all are called to the truth."
"He has been called," Gornom said. "He has been chosen."
"How is he chosen?"
Gornom explained. When he had finished, a silence thick as velvet descended upon the room. Then, very suddenly, all the elders spoke at once.
"May the masters live forever."
Cadnan, by this time, was nearly paralyzed with fright. He sat very still. The elders continued, in a slow, leaden chorus:
"May the masters live forever.
"May the words live forever.
"May the lessons live forever.
"May the truths live forever."
Then the velvet silence came down again, but the words rang through it faintly until Gornom broke the spell with speech.
"The young one has come to learn. He has come to know the truths." He looked around at the others and then went on: "His name is Cadnan. He wishes to have your names. Let him have your names."
The elder who had spoken first identified himself as Lonak. The others gave their names in order: Dalor, Puna, Grudoc, Burlog, Montun. Cadnan stared with fascinated eyes at Puna, who was older than anyone he had ever seen. His skin was nearly all white, and in the dim room it seemed to have a faint shine. His voice was very high and thin, like a wind sighing in tall tree-branches. Cadnan shivered, but didn't take his eye from Puna until, as if at a signal, all the elders rose. Awkwardly, then, Cadnan rose with them, again confused and still frightened.
He saw Gornom raise his hands over his head and chant: "Tall are the masters."
All the others repeated the words.
"Wise are the masters."
Cadnan, this time, repeated the phrase with the elders.
"Good are the masters."
When the antiphon had been delivered Gornom waited a full second and then fell prostrate to the floor. The others followed his example, except for Cadnan, who, afraid to let himself fall on bare metal, crouched down slowly instead.
"Weak are the slaves," Gornom whispered.
The answer was a whisper, too.
"Small are the slaves."
The others whispered.
"They are like small ones all the days of their lives, and only the masters are elders."
"The masters are elders."
"As the machine obeys," Gornom said, "so the slave obeys. As the tree obeys, so the slave obeys. As the metal obeys, so the slave obeys. As the ground obeys, so the slave obeys."
"So the slave obeys."
Then there was silence again, not as profound as before. Through it, Cadnan could hear the others whispering, but he couldn't quite catch their words. He was later told what praying was, though he never had a chance to practice it.
And then everyone returned to the original circle, and squatted. In what was almost a normal tone Gornom said: "Here is our new one. He must be told."
Puna himself rose. "I will tell him." And Cadnan, frightened by the very look of the elder, could do nothing but follow him as he beckoned and went to a corner near a mound of leaves. The others, scattered, were eating. Cadnan picked up a leaf, but Puna took it gently out of his hand.
"We do not eat until it is over," he said quietly.
Cadnan accepted this without words, and Puna told him the legend. During the entire tale, Cadnan, stock-still, didn't even think of interrupting. At first his attention wandered to the leaves, but as Puna's voice went on he listened more and more closely, and even his fright began to leave him under the legend's fascination.
"Long ago, the masters come to the world, sent by the Great Elder. We are no more than children. We do not work, we do nothing except eat and sleep and live out our lives in the world. The Great Elder makes us the gift of talking and the gift of trees, and he makes the rules of the trees.
"Then he does nothing more for us. First we must become more than children, more than small ones.
"For this he sends the masters.
"The masters are good because they show us work and give us machines that have power. Our power is over the masters because of the machines. But we may not use such power. They are elder to us: they are wiser than we are. Only when we become so wise we use power against them, and in that day master and slave are one. In that day the Great Elder returns to his small ones.
"In this time there is the work, and the work makes us always more like the masters. We live in the buildings like masters. We work with machines like masters. We do what the masters say. Soon we are all the same.
"No one can tell when we are like masters in all things. We know of it when the Great Elder returns to us. All must watch and wait for that day. In this time, we only remember and tell ourselves the truths over and over. There are many truths and some I can not speak. Here are the others:
"The masters are our elders.
"The machines are under obedience to us while we obey the masters.
"The Great Elder wishes our obedience to the masters.
"If we disobey the masters the machines and the trees will not obey us, and there will be no more work and no small ones. For this is the order of the world: some obeying and some to be obeyed. It is visible and plain. When the chain is broken all the chain breaks."
Puna paused, and then repeated the last sentence.
"When the chain is broken all the chain breaks."
"It is true," Cadnan said excitedly. "It is true. Yet there is more truth—"
"There is," Puna said soberly. "We meet again in five days' time. I can count five days, and so the others will know, and you will know. At this next meeting you will be told more truths." His smile was thin and distant. "Now eat."
Cadnan reached numbly for a leaf and, without thinking, began to nibble. The world had been set in order: he had no more questions now. Instead, he felt empty spaces, waiting to be filled with the great knowledge of Puna and of Gornom and all the others, at the next meeting.
And at other meetings, after that....
He put that thought away: it was too much and too large. The one certain thing was that in five days' time (whenever that was) he would know more. In five days they would all meet again.
He hoped five days was not too long.
As matters turned out, of course, he need not have worried. The meeting he was waiting for never happened.
And, after that, there were no more meetings at all.
PUBLIC OPINION THREEBeing excerpts from memo directives sent between executives of Associated Metallic Products, Ltd., a corporation having its main offices within Dome Two, Luna City, Luna, and associated offices on all three inhabited planets, the memo directives being dated between May fourteenth and May twenty-first, in the Year of the Confederation two hundred and ten.
PUBLIC OPINION THREE
Being excerpts from memo directives sent between executives of Associated Metallic Products, Ltd., a corporation having its main offices within Dome Two, Luna City, Luna, and associated offices on all three inhabited planets, the memo directives being dated between May fourteenth and May twenty-first, in the Year of the Confederation two hundred and ten.
TO: John HarrisonFROM: Fredk. RamsbothamRE: Metals supplies & shipmentIt having come to my attention that the process of metals shipment is in danger because of a threat to the materials and procurement divisions of AMP, Ltd., I wish to advise you, as current Chairman of the Board, of the nature of the emergency, and request your aid in drawing up plans to deal with it.According to reports from our outside operatives, and such statistical checking as we have been able to use in a matter of this nature, there exists a strong possibility that present procurement procedures regarding our raw materials may at any moment be abrogated by act of the Confederation government. The original motive for this action would seem to be a rising tide of public unrest, sparked apparently by chance disclosure of our procurement procedures. That the public unrest may very soon reach the point at which Confederation notice, and hence Confederation action, may be taken is the best judgment both of our outside operatives and of our statistical department.In order to deal with this unprecedented emergency, it would be advisable to have your thoughts on the matter. With these in hand....TO: Fred RamsbothamFROM: John HarrisonRE: Your memo May 14My God, Fred, I haven't seen such a collection of verbiage since Latin class. Why not say what you mean? People are calling the setup on Fruyling's World slavery, and slavery is a nasty word.Let's get together for a talk—and what's with the high-sounding guff? You sound sore about something: what?TO: James Oliver GogartyFROM: Leonard OffuttRE: Statistical findings... The situation is serious, J. O., and there's no getting around it. If the Government has to take action there's only one way (given current majorities) they're going to be able to move, and that's to declare Fruyling's World a protectorate, or some such (get your lawyers to straighten out the terminology: in plain and simple English, a ward of the state), and "administer" the place for the best interests of the natives.Get that: the natives.Never mind us, never mind AMP, never mind the metals we need.No, the Government will step in and take all that away from us in the interests of a bunch of silly green-looking monsters who can barely talk and can't, as near as I can see, think at all.Statistics doesn't give us much of a chance of heading them off. As a matter of fact, any recommended course of action has better than a 50% chance of making matters even worse. And if you don't think theycanbe worse, take a look at the attached sheet, which....TO: John HarrisonFROM: Fredk. RamsbothamRE: Your memo May 15Have you never heard of the Confederation impounding records? Or these memos, for instance?TO: Fred RamsbothamFROM: John HarrisonRE: Your memo May 15Have you never heard of AMP burning them, you silly damn fool?Now let's get together for a talk.TO: James Oliver GogartyFROM: Gregory Whiting and staffRE: Your memo May 17Pressure put on Confederation executives and members of the Senate might convince the Confederation that, without a fight, Fruyling's World would not surrender to Confederation control.It might not be advisable to begin such a fight. Even with modern methods of transport and training, the weapons gap between the Confederation and Fruyling's World is a severe handicap. In other words, J. O., if it came to a showdown the people here don't think we stand a fair chance of coming out on top.You'd better rethink your position, then....TO: James Oliver GogartyFROM: John HarrisonRE: Fruyling's WorldInteroffice guff says you're planning definite moves on your own, J. O., and against some opposition.I'm still Chairman of the Board around here, and I intend to use power if I have to. The best advice I can get tells me your plans are unadvisable.Get it through your head that this has nothing to do with the Board elections. This is a serious matter. I can stop you, J. O., and don't think I won't if it comes to that. But I don't want to make threats.There must be something we can do—but we're going to have to devote more thought to the whole matter first.TO: James Oliver GogartyFROM: Leonard OffuttRE: Statistical findingsChances of such pressure succeeding are, according to derived figures, 37%. Chances of the pressure leading to actual attack on Fruyling's World (see attached sheet) are 58%.We cannot advise....TO: Fredk. RamsbothamFROM: James Oliver GogartyRE: Attached statistical findings... Of course it's a risk, Frederick, but we're in the risk-taking business, and we always were, as your father used to say, and mine too. Between us, John is a cautious old man, and the rest of the Board is beginning to appreciate that. By next year the entire situation may have changed.I'm asking for your support, then, as a matter of practical politics. In a risky matter like this one, support can make all the difference between....TO: James Oliver GogartyFROM: John HarrisonRE: My memo May 19J. O., I mean it.Now lay off.TO: Williston ReedFROM: John HarrisonRE: Current memo seriesAs you know, I'm keeping you up to date whenever I have a minute between appointments: a publicity chief ought to know everything, inside as well as public-issue material, if only so he can be conscious of what to hide. I've tried to work with you as well as I can, and if there are delays in reporting, you'll understand that pressure of other duties....... The story behind all of this is simple enough. The takeover Gogarty and Ramsbotham have been trying to pull is interfering with practical business. Frankly, AMP'S competitors are happy enough to jump in and stir the pot: I think they've been buying up Senators here and there (for which there is, God knows, enough precedent; the entire Senate hasn't been bought since the Dedrick mutiny forty years back but you don'tneedthe entire Senate if you have a few key men, and I've always thought Dedrick's lawyers were wasteful), and beyond what the competition's been active in, there are always the fanatics. Freedom for all—you know the sort of thing.Now the big danger is that if R. and G. succeed in keeping things messed up the rest of the metals boys will step in, push the government into the right moves, and kill Fruyling's World deader than Dedrick himself. Which (according to the statistical breakdown) won't put us into the bankruptcy courts, but will slide us from a first-or-second spot to a ninth-or-tenth one. The big question is whether you'd rather be a small frog in a big puddle or the reverse. Me, I'd rather be a big frog in a big puddle than any other combination I can think of, and in spite of everything I think I'm going to go on being just that.Fruyling's World has been around for a long time, but the current AMP fight gives the competition the opportunity they need, and they're pushing it. If we can weather the storm....Well, I'm being gloomy. Of course we can weather the storm. I'll swing Gogarty back, and that will leave Ramsbotham nowhere to go....TO: John HarrisonFROM: Fredk. RamsbothamRE: Fruyling's World... Support of the suggestion put forward by Mr. Gogarty at the last Board meeting was not, believe me, given without grave consideration.Now that the matter has been decided, I hope we can all pull together like team-mates, and "let the dead past bury its dead". I'm sure that....TO: Fred RamsbothamFROM: John HarrisonRE: Your memo May 21I'm worrying a little more about burying some of the currently living—our own men on Fruyling's World.I've got to ask you to reconsider....TO: All news services, for immediate releaseFROM: Williston ReedAs almost his first act on taking his position as Chairman of the Board of Associated Metallic Products, Ltd., Frederick Ramsbotham today issued a statement of policy regarding "interference by Confederation governmental officials" in what he termed the "private business of AMP."Mr. Ramsbotham, whose recent election came as a surprise to many shareholders, has stated his intention of "remaining firm in continuance of present policies" regardless of what he described as "threats" from Confederation officials.He states that his duty to shareholders of AMP must include protection of the private and profit-making enterprise being carried on at Fruyling's World, and that such private concerns are not "the business of public government."As former Chairman of the Board, John Harrison was asked to comment on the position taken by Mr. Ramsbotham. Mr. Harrison stated that he disagreed with the particular stand taken by Mr. Ramsbotham in this matter, but sympathized with his strong feelings of duty toward the shareholders of the concern.Confederation response was reported to be "immediate and strong" by sources high in the government, but as yet no final word has been received regarding what action, if any, is contemplated....TO: Fredk. RamsbothamFROM: John HarrisonSUBJECT: The daily paperNow you've torn it.Unless you think we can make money selling weapons to be used against our own people on Fruyling's World.I've sold out my shares as of this morning, Fred. I'm through. I think you are, too—whether you know it or not just yet.
TO: John Harrison
FROM: Fredk. Ramsbotham
RE: Metals supplies & shipment
It having come to my attention that the process of metals shipment is in danger because of a threat to the materials and procurement divisions of AMP, Ltd., I wish to advise you, as current Chairman of the Board, of the nature of the emergency, and request your aid in drawing up plans to deal with it.
According to reports from our outside operatives, and such statistical checking as we have been able to use in a matter of this nature, there exists a strong possibility that present procurement procedures regarding our raw materials may at any moment be abrogated by act of the Confederation government. The original motive for this action would seem to be a rising tide of public unrest, sparked apparently by chance disclosure of our procurement procedures. That the public unrest may very soon reach the point at which Confederation notice, and hence Confederation action, may be taken is the best judgment both of our outside operatives and of our statistical department.
In order to deal with this unprecedented emergency, it would be advisable to have your thoughts on the matter. With these in hand....
TO: Fred Ramsbotham
FROM: John Harrison
RE: Your memo May 14
My God, Fred, I haven't seen such a collection of verbiage since Latin class. Why not say what you mean? People are calling the setup on Fruyling's World slavery, and slavery is a nasty word.
Let's get together for a talk—and what's with the high-sounding guff? You sound sore about something: what?
TO: James Oliver Gogarty
FROM: Leonard Offutt
RE: Statistical findings
... The situation is serious, J. O., and there's no getting around it. If the Government has to take action there's only one way (given current majorities) they're going to be able to move, and that's to declare Fruyling's World a protectorate, or some such (get your lawyers to straighten out the terminology: in plain and simple English, a ward of the state), and "administer" the place for the best interests of the natives.
Get that: the natives.
Never mind us, never mind AMP, never mind the metals we need.
No, the Government will step in and take all that away from us in the interests of a bunch of silly green-looking monsters who can barely talk and can't, as near as I can see, think at all.
Statistics doesn't give us much of a chance of heading them off. As a matter of fact, any recommended course of action has better than a 50% chance of making matters even worse. And if you don't think theycanbe worse, take a look at the attached sheet, which....
TO: John Harrison
FROM: Fredk. Ramsbotham
RE: Your memo May 15
Have you never heard of the Confederation impounding records? Or these memos, for instance?
TO: Fred Ramsbotham
FROM: John Harrison
RE: Your memo May 15
Have you never heard of AMP burning them, you silly damn fool?
Now let's get together for a talk.
TO: James Oliver Gogarty
FROM: Gregory Whiting and staff
RE: Your memo May 17
Pressure put on Confederation executives and members of the Senate might convince the Confederation that, without a fight, Fruyling's World would not surrender to Confederation control.
It might not be advisable to begin such a fight. Even with modern methods of transport and training, the weapons gap between the Confederation and Fruyling's World is a severe handicap. In other words, J. O., if it came to a showdown the people here don't think we stand a fair chance of coming out on top.
You'd better rethink your position, then....
TO: James Oliver Gogarty
FROM: John Harrison
RE: Fruyling's World
Interoffice guff says you're planning definite moves on your own, J. O., and against some opposition.
I'm still Chairman of the Board around here, and I intend to use power if I have to. The best advice I can get tells me your plans are unadvisable.
Get it through your head that this has nothing to do with the Board elections. This is a serious matter. I can stop you, J. O., and don't think I won't if it comes to that. But I don't want to make threats.
There must be something we can do—but we're going to have to devote more thought to the whole matter first.
TO: James Oliver Gogarty
FROM: Leonard Offutt
RE: Statistical findings
Chances of such pressure succeeding are, according to derived figures, 37%. Chances of the pressure leading to actual attack on Fruyling's World (see attached sheet) are 58%.
We cannot advise....
TO: Fredk. Ramsbotham
FROM: James Oliver Gogarty
RE: Attached statistical findings
... Of course it's a risk, Frederick, but we're in the risk-taking business, and we always were, as your father used to say, and mine too. Between us, John is a cautious old man, and the rest of the Board is beginning to appreciate that. By next year the entire situation may have changed.
I'm asking for your support, then, as a matter of practical politics. In a risky matter like this one, support can make all the difference between....
TO: James Oliver Gogarty
FROM: John Harrison
RE: My memo May 19
J. O., I mean it.
Now lay off.
TO: Williston Reed
FROM: John Harrison
RE: Current memo series
As you know, I'm keeping you up to date whenever I have a minute between appointments: a publicity chief ought to know everything, inside as well as public-issue material, if only so he can be conscious of what to hide. I've tried to work with you as well as I can, and if there are delays in reporting, you'll understand that pressure of other duties....
... The story behind all of this is simple enough. The takeover Gogarty and Ramsbotham have been trying to pull is interfering with practical business. Frankly, AMP'S competitors are happy enough to jump in and stir the pot: I think they've been buying up Senators here and there (for which there is, God knows, enough precedent; the entire Senate hasn't been bought since the Dedrick mutiny forty years back but you don'tneedthe entire Senate if you have a few key men, and I've always thought Dedrick's lawyers were wasteful), and beyond what the competition's been active in, there are always the fanatics. Freedom for all—you know the sort of thing.
Now the big danger is that if R. and G. succeed in keeping things messed up the rest of the metals boys will step in, push the government into the right moves, and kill Fruyling's World deader than Dedrick himself. Which (according to the statistical breakdown) won't put us into the bankruptcy courts, but will slide us from a first-or-second spot to a ninth-or-tenth one. The big question is whether you'd rather be a small frog in a big puddle or the reverse. Me, I'd rather be a big frog in a big puddle than any other combination I can think of, and in spite of everything I think I'm going to go on being just that.
Fruyling's World has been around for a long time, but the current AMP fight gives the competition the opportunity they need, and they're pushing it. If we can weather the storm....
Well, I'm being gloomy. Of course we can weather the storm. I'll swing Gogarty back, and that will leave Ramsbotham nowhere to go....
TO: John Harrison
FROM: Fredk. Ramsbotham
RE: Fruyling's World
... Support of the suggestion put forward by Mr. Gogarty at the last Board meeting was not, believe me, given without grave consideration.
Now that the matter has been decided, I hope we can all pull together like team-mates, and "let the dead past bury its dead". I'm sure that....
TO: Fred Ramsbotham
FROM: John Harrison
RE: Your memo May 21
I'm worrying a little more about burying some of the currently living—our own men on Fruyling's World.
I've got to ask you to reconsider....
TO: All news services, for immediate release
FROM: Williston Reed
As almost his first act on taking his position as Chairman of the Board of Associated Metallic Products, Ltd., Frederick Ramsbotham today issued a statement of policy regarding "interference by Confederation governmental officials" in what he termed the "private business of AMP."
Mr. Ramsbotham, whose recent election came as a surprise to many shareholders, has stated his intention of "remaining firm in continuance of present policies" regardless of what he described as "threats" from Confederation officials.
He states that his duty to shareholders of AMP must include protection of the private and profit-making enterprise being carried on at Fruyling's World, and that such private concerns are not "the business of public government."
As former Chairman of the Board, John Harrison was asked to comment on the position taken by Mr. Ramsbotham. Mr. Harrison stated that he disagreed with the particular stand taken by Mr. Ramsbotham in this matter, but sympathized with his strong feelings of duty toward the shareholders of the concern.
Confederation response was reported to be "immediate and strong" by sources high in the government, but as yet no final word has been received regarding what action, if any, is contemplated....
TO: Fredk. Ramsbotham
FROM: John Harrison
SUBJECT: The daily paper
Now you've torn it.
Unless you think we can make money selling weapons to be used against our own people on Fruyling's World.
I've sold out my shares as of this morning, Fred. I'm through. I think you are, too—whether you know it or not just yet.
"That old-time religion."
Dodd heard the words echoing in his mind that night, and the next night, and the next. All that she had said:
"We set up a nice pie-in-the-sky sort of thing, all according to the best theory, just the thing to keep the Alberts happy and satisfied and working hard for us. It started right after the first setup here, and by now I guess the Alberts think they invented it all by themselves, or their Great Elder came down from a tree and told them."
"It's horrible," he had said.
"Of course it is." There was a silence. "But you said it yourself: what can we do? We're here and we're stuck here."
"But—"
Norma didn't want to argue, but the argument went on in Dodd's mind, and it still continued, circling in his mind like a buzzard. There was nothing he could do about it, nothing Norma could do about it. He avoided even the thought of seeing her for a few days, and then he found himself making an excuse to go over to Building One. He met her there, after lounging about for hours.
And what she had disclosed to him, what they spoke of, made no difference that he could see in what he felt.
He was happy. Slowly he realized that he had hardly ever been happy before.
He even forgot, for a time, about the rumors, the threat of Confederation troops that had hung over her words like a gray cloud: all he could think of was Norma, and the terrible thing in which they were both bound up.
He told himself grimly that it would never have bothered Albin, for instance. Albin would have had his fun with Norma, and that would have been that.
But it bothered Johnny Dodd.
He was still worrying over it, and in spite of himself finding happiness, when the escape came, and the end.
"There's nothing to be done about it." Dr. Haenlingen delivered the words and sat down rigidly behind her desk. Norma nodded, very slowly.
"I know that," she said. "I started out—I started to do just what you wanted. To talk to him, draw him out, find out just what he did feel and what he planned."
"And then something happened," Dr. Haenlingen said tightly. "I know."
Norma paced to the window and looked out, but the day was gray: she saw only her own reflection. "Something happened," she murmured. "I—guess I had too much to drink. I wanted to talk."
"So I understand," Dr. Haenlingen said. "And you talked. And—whatever his situation—you managed to increase his tension rather than understand or lessen it."
Norma shook her head at the reflection. "I'm sorry."
"I have often found," Dr. Haenlingen said, "that sorrow following an action is worse than useless. It usually implies a request to commit the same action again."
"But I wouldn't—" Norma said, turning, and then stopped before the calm gaze of the old woman.
"No?" Dr. Haenlingen said.
"I'll try to—"
Dr. Haenlingen lifted a hand and brushed the words aside. "It doesn't matter," she said. "I am beginning to see that it doesn't matter."
"But—"
"All we can do now is wait," Dr. Haenlingen said. "We are—outplayed."
There was a little silence. Norma waited through it without moving.
"Would you like to have a lesson in psychology?" Dr. Haenlingen said in the graying room. "Would you like to learn a little, just a little, about your fellow man?"
Norma felt suddenly frightened. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong," Dr. Haenlingen said. "Everything is moving along exactly as might have been predicted. If we had known what the Confederation planned, and exactly the timetable of their actions ... but we did not, and could not. Norma, listen to me."
The story she told was very simple. It took a fairly long time to tell.
Slavery takes a toll of the slaves (as the Confederation was beginning to find out, as the idealists, the do-gooders, were beginning, however slowly to realize). But it takes a toll of the masters, too.
The masters can't quite rid themselves of the idea that beings which react so much like people may really (in spite of everything, in spite of appearance, in spite of laws and regulations and social practices) be people, after all, in everything but name and training.
And it just wouldn't be right to treatpeoplethat way....
Slaves feel pain. In simple reciprocity, masters feel guilt.
And because (according to the society, and the laws, and the appearances, and the regulations) there was no need for guilt, the masters of Fruyling's World had, like masters anywhere and any time, buried the guilt, hidden it even from themselves, forbidden its existence and forgotten to mention it to their thoughts.
But the guilt remained, and the guilt demanded.
Punishment was needed.
"They're going to fight," Dr. Haenlingen said. "When the Confederation attacks, they're going to fight back. It's senseless: even if we won, the Confederation fleet could blockade us, prevent us getting a shipment out, bottle us up and starve us for good. But they don't need sense, they need motive, which is quite a different thing. They're going to fight—both because they need the punishment of a really good licking, and because fighting is one more way for them to deny their guilt."
"It seems complex," Norma said.
"Everything is complex," Dr. Haenlingen said, "as soon as human beings engage in it. The action is simple enough: warfare."
"We've got to stop them—"
Dr. Haenlingen went on as if she hadn't heard. "The action serves two different, indeed two contradictory purposes. If you think that's something rare in the actions of mankind, you must be more naive than you have any right to be."
"We've got to stop them," Norma said again. "Got to. They'll die—we'll all die."
"There is nothing to do," Dr. Haenlingen said. "We are outplayed—by the Confederation, by our own selves. We are outplayed: there are no moves left. There is nothing I can offer, nothing anyone can offer, quite as attractive as the double gift of punishment and denial." Shockingly, for the first time, the old woman sounded tired. Her voice was thin in the gray room. "Nothing we can do, Norma. You're dismissed: go back to work."
"But you can't just give up—you can show them there aren't any real reasons, show them they're not being rational—"
"Oh, but they'll be rational," Dr. Haenlingen said in the same still voice. "Wait for the rumors to start, Norma. Wait for them to begin telling each other that the Confederation is going to kill them all anyhow, take them back and hang them as war criminals—"
"That's ridiculous!"
"Perhaps."
"Then—"
"Rumors during a war are almost always ridiculous. That fact makes no difference at all. They'll be believed—because they have to be believed."
Norma thought. "We can start counter-rumors."
"Which would not be believed. They offer nothing, nothing that these people want. Oh, yes, people can be changed—" Dr. Haenlingen paused. "Given sufficient time and sufficient equipment, it is possible to make anyone into anything, anything at all. But to change these people, to make them act as we want—the time required is more than ten years, Norma. And we haven't got ten years."
"We've got to try," Norma said earnestly.
"What we have got," Dr. Haenlingen said, "is more like ten days. And there is nothing to do in ten days. The people have spoken. Vox populi...." The eyes closed. There was a silence Norma waited, astonished, horrified. "Perhaps it is necessary," Dr. Haenlingen's voice said. "Perhaps ... we must wait.Ich kann nicht anders...."
"What?" Norma asked.
"Martin Luther," Dr. Haenlingen's voice said, remote and thin. "It means: 'I can do nothing else.' He wrote it as his justification for a course of action that was going to get him excommunicated, perhaps killed."
"But—"
Dr. Haenlingen said nothing, did nothing. The body sat behind its desk in the gray room. Norma stared, then turned and fled.
The mixture of feelings inside Cadnan was entirely new to him, and he couldn't control it very well. He found himself shaking without meaning to, and was unable to stop himself. There was relief, first of all, that it was all over, that he no longer had to worry about what Marvor might have planned, or whether Marvor were going to involve him. There was fright, seeing anyone carry through such a foolhardy, almost impious idea in the teeth of the masters. And there was simple disappointment, the disappointment of a novice theologue who has seen his pet heretic slip the net and go free.
For Cadnan had tried, earnestly, night after night, to convert Marvor to the new truths the elders had shown him. They were luminously obvious to Cadnan, and they set the world in beautiful order; but, somehow, he couldn't get through to Marvor at all, couldn't express the ideas he had well enough or convincingly enough to let Marvor see how beautiful and true all of them really were. For a time, in fact, he told himself with bitterness that Marvor's escape had really been all his own fault. If he'd only had more talks with Marvor, he thought cloudily, or if he'd only been able to speak more convincingly....
But regret is part of a subjunctive vocabulary. At least one writer has noted that the subjunctive is the mark of civilization. This may be true: it seems true: in Cadnan's case, at any rate, it certainly was true. Uncivilized, he spent little time in subjunctive moods. All that he had done, all that Marvor had done, was open to him, and he remembered it often—but, once the bad first minutes were past, he remembered everything with less and less regret. The mixture, as it stood, was heady enough for Cadnan's untrained emotions.
He had tried to talk to Marvor about the truths, of course. Marvor, though, had been obstinately indifferent. Nothing made any impression on his hardened, stubborn mind. And now he was gone.
Dara had the news first. She came into their common room at the end of the day, very excited, her hands still moving as if she were turning handles in the refinery even after the close of work. Cadnan, still feeling an attraction for her, and perceiving now that something had disturbed her, stayed where he was squatting. Attraction for Dara, and help given to her, might lead to mating, and mating was against the rule. But Dara came to him.
"Do you know what happens with Marvor?" she said. Her voice, always quiet, was still as sweet to Cadnan as it had ever been. "He is gone, and the masters do not know where."
The mixture of emotions began: surprise and relief first, then regret and disappointment, then fear, all boiling and bubbling inside him like a witch's stew. He spoke without thinking: "He is gone to break the chain of obedience. He is gone to find others who think as he thinks."
"He is escaped," Dara said. "It is the word the masters use, when they speak of this."
"It happens before now," Cadnan told her. "There are others, whom he joins."
Dara shut her eye. "It is true. But I know what happens when there is an escape. In the place where my work is, there is one from Great Bend Tree. She tells me of what happens."
Dara fell silent and Cadnan watched her nervously. But he had no chance to speak: she began again, convulsively.
"When this other escapes it is from a room of Great Bend Tree." Cadnan nodded: he and Dara were of Bent Line Tree, and hence in a different room. The segregation, simple for the masters, was handy and unimportant, and so it was used. Cadnan thought it natural: every tree had its own room.
"Do they find the one who escapes?" he asked.
"They find him. The masters come in and they punish the others from the room."
Precedent was clearly recognizable, even though it made no sense. Those who had not escaped surely had no reason to be punished, Cadnan thought. But what the masters had done to Great Bend Tree they would do to Bent Line Tree.
Everyone would be punished.
With a shock he realized that "everyone" included Dara.
He heard himself speak. "You must go."
Dara looked at him innocently. "Go?" she said.
"You must go as Marvor has gone. The masters do not take you for punishment if you go."
"There is nothing for me to do," she said, and her eye closed. "No. I wait for you, but only to tell you this: there is nothing I can do."
"Marvor is gone," Cadnan said slowly. "You, too, can go. Maybe the masters do not find you. If you stay you are punished. If you go and they do not find you there is no punishment for you." It amazed him that she could not see so clear a point.
"Then all can go," she said. "All can escape punishment."
Cadnan grunted, thinking that over. "Where one goes," he said at last, "one can go. Maybe many can not go."
Her answer was swift. "And you?"
"I stay here," he said, trying to sound as decisive as possible.
Dara turned away. "I do not listen to your words," she said flatly. "I do not hear you or see you."
Cadnan hissed in anguish. She had to understand.... "What do I say that is wrong? You must—"
"You speak of my going alone," she said. "But that is me, and no more. What of the others?"
"Marvor," Cadnan said after a second. "He is to come and aid them. He tells me this. We join him and come back with him, away from here, to where he stays now. Then none of us are punished." He paused. "It will be a great punishment."
"I know," Dara said. "Yet one does not go alone."
Her voice was so low that Cadnan could barely hear it, but the words were like sharp stones, stabbing fear into his body. For the first time, he saw clearly exactly what she was driving at. And after a long pause, she spoke again.
"Where one goes, two may go. Where Marvor goes, two may follow, one to lead the other."
"One goes alone," Cadnan said, feeling himself tremble and trying to control it. "You must go."
It seemed a long time before she spoke again, and Cadnan held himself tightly, until his muscles began to ache.
"We go together," she said at last "Two go where one has gone. Only so do I leave at all."
It was an ultimatum, and Cadnan understood what was behind it. But an attraction between Dara and himself ... he said: "There is the rule of the tree," but it was like casting water on steel.
"If we leave here," Dara said, "why think of a smaller rule?"
Cadnan tried to find words, but there were no words. She had won, and he knew it. He could not let Dara stay behind to draw a great punishment, possibly even to die, to be no more Dara. And there was no way of forcing her to go and escape that fate—no way except to go with her.
"We must wait until they sleep," Dara said in a sudden return to practicality. "Then we go."
Cadnan looked around at the huddled, vaguely stirring forms of his companions. Fear was joined by a sort of sickness he had never known before. He was a slave, and that was good—but once outside where would he find work, or food, or a master? Where there was no master, Cadnan told himself, there was no slave: he was nothing, nameless, non-existent.
But there was neither word nor action for him now. He tried once more to argue but his words were parried with a calm tenacity that left no room for discussion. In the end he was ready to do what he had to do—had to do in order, simply, to save Dara. There was no other reason: he needed none.
He had heard of the attraction of male for female, though some did not experience it until the true time of mating. He had not until that moment known how strong the attraction could be.
The waiting, though it seemed like positive days, didn't take long. The others in the room fell asleep, by habit, one by one, and soon Dara and Cadnan were the only ones left awake. Neither was tempted to sleep: their own terror and their decision kept them very effectively alert.
Cadnan said: "If the masters see us?"
Dara turned on him a face that seemed completely calm. "They do not see us," she said flatly. "Now do not speak."
They rose and, silently, went to the door. The door opened just as quietly, and shut once again behind them.
The corridor was filled with watching eyes, Cadnan felt: but there were no masters in evidence. They stood for a second, waiting, and then Dara started down toward the big room at the end, her feet silent on the floor, and Cadnan followed her.
No masters were visible. There should have been guards, but the guards might have been anywhere: one escape had hardly served to alert a lazy, uninterested group who performed their duties out of no more than habit. Wherever the guards were resting, they were not in the corridor: everything went smoothly. It was smoother than Cadnan was willing to believe.
Soon, though, they were actually in the great lobby of the building. It, too, was dark and empty. They stood dwarfed by the place, the gigantic doors that led to freedom no more than a few feet away.
Cadnan kept telling himself that where Marvor had gone he, too, could go. But Marvor had had a plan, and Cadnan had none.
Yet they were safe—so far, so far. They walked toward the door now, a step at a time. Each step seemed to take an hour, a full day. Dara walked ahead, straight and tall: Cadnan caught up with her, and she put out her hand. There was no more than an instant of hesitation. He took the hand.
That pledged them to each other, until the time of mating. But what was one more law now?
Another step. Another.
Cadnan, in the silence, was suddenly tempted to make a noise, any sort of noise—but it seemed impossible to create sound. The quiet dimness wrapped him like a blanket. He took another step.
Mating, he thought. If the chain of obedience was broken would the trees refuse to obey, in their turn? Puna had said so, and it was true. And if the trees refused to obey there would be no mating....
Yet Dara would be safe. That was the important thing. One thing at a time.
Another step.
And then, at last, the door.
Cadnan pushed at it, and it opened—and then there was sound, plenty of sound, more sound than he could have imagined, sound to fill the great lobby, to fill the entire building with rocking, trembling agonies of noise!
There was an alarm-bell, to be exact, an alarm-buzzer, combinations and solo cadenzas. The guards were, after all, no more than dressing: the automatic machinery never slept, and it responded beautifully and with enthusiasm.
Cadnan and Dara ran crazily out into the darkness. The building fell behind them and the jungle was ahead: still they ran, but Cadnan felt the ground, bumpy instead of smooth, and stumbled once, nearly falling. He saw Dara ahead of him. Getting up and beginning again was automatic: panic beat at him. The noise grew and grew. His feet moved, his heart thudded....
And then the lights went on.
Automatic sweep searchlights were keyed in. The machinery continued to respond.
Cadnan found himself suddenly struck blind: ahead of him, Dara made a single, lonely, terrified sound that overrode all the alarms.
Cadnan tried to shout: "We must run! In the dark the masters cannot see—"
But, of course, by then it was too late to move.
The masters were all around them.
The escape was over.