I was passed through three gates by guards and went to my little cage
inside Pentagon Circle, local headquarters of the Department of
Internal Security.
Until that Tuesday morning I couldn't remember ever having done
anything but sort colored cards. My chief qualification for my job:
I wasn't color blind. When a green card with figures on it meaning
nothing to me came out of a slot in the wall, I pushed it into a green
slot that led somewhere into a filing department. When a red card came
out, I pushed it into a red slot, and so forth. There were cards of
fifteen colors.
Another qualification: my unconscious efficiency. I never had even a
hint of an abstract thought. I never remembered yesterday, let alone
the day before. And until that Tuesday morning I never made even a tiny
mistake.
I had no idea what I was doing. Nor was I at all curious. Curiosity was
highly suspect. Curiosity was dangerous in the best of all possible
worlds. It was ridiculous in a state where people had never had it so
good.
Cards sped from my hands always into correct slots. Care-free hours
slipped painlessly by into the dead past. I was sure I was safe and not
thinking at all. I was a blessed blank. And then all at once--
"_The eyes are the windows of the soul._"
The thought meant nothing to me, except it was wrong, it didn't belong
in the routine. The routine flew to pieces. My efficiency blew up.
I felt like a shiny bottle in a row of bottles with a sudden crack
running down the middle. Red cards hit blue slots. Green cards hit
yellow slots. Cards piled up, spilled over the floor. The more I tried
to return to my efficiency, the worse everything was.
My suit was wet with sweat. I thought of Mr. Donnicker. If a man's
routine broke, it could only be because some inner guilt was disrupting
his harmony. A happy person is an efficient person. Inefficiency is the
symptom of a guilty conscience.
"Mr. Fredricks," a voice whispered. "You're replaced here."
A cold paralysis gripped me.
"Get up, Fred."
I jumped out of my chair. A thin, stooped little man in a cheap gray
suit and dull eyes took my place. In no time at all he had straightened
out my mess. Cards were blurs moving into the right slots.
A wide, fattish man in a wrinkled dark suit was watching me out of
curiously shining eyes. He carried a black briefcase. I had seen the
black briefcases before. Special Police Agent.
He opened the door of my cage and motioned for me to go out ahead of
him. "Say goodbye to all this, Fred."
I felt the smile on my wet face as I nodded and tried to feel grateful
while at the same time trying to suppress the flood of fear coming up
through me and turning to sickness in my throat.
I simply couldn't be afraid. I had nothing to hide. And if I was hiding
something inside me I didn't know about, I should feel glad to have it
detected and get it all cleaned out.
"My name is John Mesner," he said as we walked down the corridor. I
couldn't say anything. I felt like a string someone was beginning to
saw on with a rusty knife.
Mesner's office somewhere upstairs was a dingy room with a dusty desk
and a couple of chairs. The walls were made of cracked concrete lined
with dusty filing cabinets. The window was so soiled I could barely see
the shadows of bars through the panes.
Mesner sat down, put his feet on the desk. He took an apple out of his
desk drawer and started peeling it slowly with a small penknife.
"You scared, Fred?"
"Of course not."
He smiled, held out a long ribbon of apple peel and dropped it on the
floor. "You're scared, Fred."
I put my Personology Card on his desk right in front of him. "I just
had a quarterly brain-check a week ago. There it is."
I stopped myself somehow from yelling out wildly as he stabbed the card
with his penknife, then tore it in little pieces and dropped them on
the floor.
"You've got nothing to be afraid of, Fred. But it'll probably take you
a while to realize it." He went on peeling the apple. He had thick
hands, stubby fingers, and the nails were dirty. He had a round pale
face, a receding chin, thinning hair, and an absurd little red cupid
bow mouth.
I tried not to hear the moaning sound that seemed to come from the
other side of a door to Mesner's right. He got up, went to the door,
opened it. "Shut that guy up," he said. He shut the door and sat down
again. He sliced off a bite of apple and pushed it into his mouth.
"To make it short, Fred. I've investigated you thoroughly. And I can
use you here in SPA. You're being transferred."
My throat was constricted. I leaned against the desk. "I don't
understand, sir. I don't know anything about Police Work. I'm only a
clerk, a card-sorter. I don't have any qualifications. And you can
see--my card."
"A couple of field-trips with me, Fred, and you'll be a veteran."
"But why me?"
"You're already in the Security Department for one thing. That makes it
convenient. Also, your Intelligence Quotient."
"It's a low eighty," I said. "That's the average. I'm well below
normal, and this brain-check showed I was lower this time than the
last. So how could my IQ make any difference?"
"Curiosity killed the cat, Fred."
I managed to sit down before I fell down. It was impossible that
I should really become an agent in the SP, the most powerful and
feared organization in the state. What then was Mesner really up to?
One work error shouldn't have snagged me. I'd never been guilty of
thinking above a rudimentary and socially acceptable level. My IQ
was unquestionably low. I was little more than a moron. So why was I
frightened. Why did I feel guilty? Why was Mesner interested?
Mesner stood up and dropped the apple core on the floor.
"We're going on a field-trip now, Fred. Your indoctrination as an SPA
man is beginning."
* * * * *
Mesner piloted the heliocar. Mesner said the only heliocars left in
operation belonged to SPA. He dropped it on a plot of dried grass
on the side of a forested hill in the Tennessee Mountains. Until we
got out of the heliocar, I didn't know Mesner had a gun. I couldn't
remember having heard of a gun or seen one before, but Mesner told me
all about guns. He slid the rifle out of a canvas case, checked it,
called it his favorite little field piece. Then he handed me his black
briefcase.
He led the way down a narrow path. It was a quiet sunny day. Squirrels
ran between the trees. Birds hopped and sang up in the leaves.
In front of a gray, dilapidated shack was a rickety wagon. Two men were
lifting a sack out of the rear of the wagon. They wore ragged overalls
and no shirts and they were both barefoot.