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--she _wouldn't_ go 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 really _blame_ her,
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."
11
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.