"No buts! Wear it a couple of days, and if you say it checks out, we
go into production immediately."
So Charles went home that night in a new suit and a worried frown.
* * * * *
Things were smooth for about two days. Charles continued to wear the
suit and Edwin insisted on his making the preliminary preparations for
the mass-production of thermostatic fabric. Charles was kept busy
working out specifications.
Then there were two factors that brought about a drastic change in his
life.
One was that he was worried. Charles wasn't exactly sure what he was
worried about, but at the back of his mind there was something in the
complicated molecular structure of the new fiber that bothered him.
The other factor was that Ingrid was still nagging him. Perhaps if
Charles had been able to tell her what he was working on she would
have understood why he was worried. But he didn't tell her, and she
didn't understand.
One day after Charles had come home and eaten, she started an argument
with him about something or other, and in the most heated part of the
battle she had hurled at him the supreme insult.
"Charles," she said, "I think you _look_ different!"
Coupled with the strain that Charles was under, that had been enough
to make him stare at Ingrid for a moment, wheel and stalk out of the
apartment.
After all, to say that one's face was even subtly different--even if
it really was--was an unforgivable insult.
Charles went out for a long, solitary evening walk and ended up at one
of those places that features six varieties of beer, a continuous
floor show and a loud band. Charles was not quite aware of entering,
but once inside, watching the bump-and-grinders who wore nothing but
their name tags, he found it difficult to leave.
The room was just ventilated enough to prevent suffocation, but it was
purposely kept hot and stuffy in the hope that this would induce
thirst on the part of the customers.
When he thought about it later he decided it was undoubtedly the
humidity that had caused the catastrophe, but when it happened he
hadn't the foggiest notion what was going on.
All he knew was that he had signalled a waitress for a third beer, she
had come threading her way between the postage-stamp tables, he had
looked up to give his order, she had looked down impersonally, and
then there was a scream.
It took a moment to realize that the waitress was screaming at him,
and by that time there were shouts from the surrounding tables as
well, and men and women alike were stumbling all over themselves to
get away from Charles.
In no time at all, there was a first-rate riot in progress, then the
lights went out, and Charles had brains enough to fight his way to an
exit and slip into the dark alley outside.
And then Charles inspected himself and realized the horrible truth.
* * * * *
The key concept to Charles' society was expressed in the word
_Standardization_. Standardization had had its beginning in the early
Industrial Revolution, when men first discovered that it was far more
efficient to make a thousand pieces of furniture if you made them all
exactly alike.
And since efficiency means economic predictability, and since
predictability means stability, Standardization quickly became the
watchword in the world's new industrial economy.
So, in time, virtually every product manufactured was standardized.
From the smallest bolts and screws in a wristwatch, through automobile
license plates, to clothing styles; everything manufactured was
strictly standard equipment.
Of course, the only unpredictable factor in this structure was the
human element, therefore the logical answer was a standardized
consumer.
The trend had started, undoubtedly, in Hollywood. The Art of
Cinematography had not existed long before becoming the Motion Picture
Industry. And, naturally, an industry must be efficient.
The Hollywood tycoons had decided that the best way to reduce the
margin of risk on any new movie star was to create an arbitrary
criterion, and to require the potential star to measure up to that
standard.
Charles was absently aware that the female standard of beauty had been
exemplified by a woman named Marilyn, and that the masculine standard
had been represented in someone named Marlon.
So, gradually, all of the new female stars that were selected by
Hollywood resembled Marilyn as much as possible, and male leads were
selected to look like Marlon. If anyone had a nose that wasn't quite
right, or large ears, a little plastic surgery quickly remedied the
problem, and if a female starlet happened to have brown hair, peroxide
was always handy.
And in time, it became increasingly difficult to tell one movie star
from another.
Then the standard, idealized faces and their standards, idealized
personal mannerisms became socially fashionable, and with modern
cosmetics and readily available plastic surgery, the fashionable men
and women in society began to imitate the ideal.
It became not only fashionable to wear the Standard face, but indecent
_not_ to do so. Social conformity was encouraged as much as possible,
and the end result was the closest thing to a Standardized,
predictable consumer as there ever could be.
This might have produced difficult problems, because with all women
and all men wearing identical clothing and identical faces, it might
have become impossible to tell one person from another, which was not
desirable even in a Standardized world.
Along with the Standard face had come name tags by which a person
might individualize himself to the minimum necessary degree.
These name tags were worn about the neck on a colorful plastic band,
with the tag itself, a white plastic card, on the right side of the
neck. On the tag, in gold lettering, was the person's name, address,
and Social Security number.
And--they were worn _all_ the time.
The name tag was the only means by which a person might be identified.
Without it, anyone might impersonate anyone else he pleased. So, of
course, it became obscene to appear in public without one.
And Charles, standing in the alley, looked down at himself and
realized the horrible truth.
* * * * *
He found himself running through back streets, sidling around corners,
and darting into doorways.
After an hour or two, he realized that he was no longer within the
City Limits.
Charles took a good look around him and discovered he was standing on
a minor highway just outside of town. There were no cars or people in
sight, and he dropped off the road into some bushes to get his wind
and think.
He had _known_ there was something wrong with the molecular structure
of the suit he was wearing, but Edwin wouldn't listen.
It had undoubtedly been the humidity. The chemical process had no
doubt been going on since he'd first donned the suit, but it had been
the heat in that beer joint that had accelerated the action enough to
finish the job. Human perspiration acting on the new fiber in the
collar of his suit produced some obscure chemical reaction which had a
corrosive effect on the plastic band and plastic card of his name tag.
He had to get home, somehow, and tell Edwin to hold up production on
the new thermostatic suit. Perhaps the flaw in it could be eliminated
in a short time. If it couldn't....
He considered. The world Dollar Standard had been absolutely stable
for more years than he knew about. What would happen if it suddenly
became unstable? A fluctuation of even a fraction of a cent would
cause widespread panic; it would jolt the Public's faith in its
infallible economic system. And the panic would cause further
deviation in the Dollar's purchasing power, and--more panic.
He wiped his brow. If the situation in the Textile Industry was as
critical as Edwin said it was, then Edwin and his superiors weren't
going to be at all happy when Charles told them about the suit--and
Charles was going to be the fall guy.
But of course he had to get back and tell them. Because Edwin was all
set to start production on the all-weather suit immediately, and if he
actually went through with that and got a few million of them onto
consumer's backs, the result would be not panic, but disaster.
And Charles' present problem was how to get home without being
arrested.
* * * * *
It was then that one individual got an extremely tough break, and
Charles got his first lucky one.
A turbocar came barreling down the highway and, without warning struck
an embankment. The driver was thrown fifty feet from the wreckage.
Under different circumstances, he would never have considered doing
what he did then. The penalty for wearing another person's name tag
was severe. But Charles was under an extreme emotional strain; and
without even thinking, he bent over the limp grey form of the other
marlon and removed his tag.
He straightened, then, clutching the plastic band and looking around
at the smoking wreck. Already, he could hear a siren somewhere in the
night.
He slipped the name tag over his head and struck out through the
bushes toward the city.
His plan was simple; he had another name tag in his apartment for
emergency purposes, and if Ingrid was in bed he'd have no trouble
getting it, destroying the one he was wearing now, and putting on his
other suit.
Briefly, he wondered what the police would think of finding a body
near a smashed car with no name tag. They'd probably decide it was the
same person that had caused the disturbance at the night club earlier
in the evening.
Charles realized that the lettering on the car had indicated it was a
public, coin-operated vehicle, so the authorities would have no means
of identifying the body.
After awhile it occurred to him that if he should go into hiding
someplace, the body might easily be identified as his own, and he
wouldn't have to worry about what Edwin and the other bosses would do
to him. It probably wouldn't be noticed that the torn and
blood-spattered clothes on the corpse were not thermostatic. But he
shook his head resolutely. Even if he were crazy enough to try it, the
body would be reported missing by somebody or other, so that would
never do.
Eventually, Charles reached a main thoroughfare in the city and hailed
a cab. He climbed in the back, told the driver briefly to take him
home, and then slumped down in the seat and brooded.
He stared out the window, watching the buildings go by, and the
emotional reaction of the evening began to set in. Morbidly, Charles
wondered what they'd do to him if he kept his mouth shut and let the
Industry put the suit into production, and waited for the millions of
ID tags to begin to drop off.
The prospect was so frightening that his apprehension over what would
happen if it was discovered he was wearing somebody else's tag almost
disappeared.
Finally, the cab rolled to a stop. Charles got out and dropped some
coins into the hand protruding from the front seat, and, head low, he
turned and entered the apartment house.
He trudged dismally up the stairs, thinking about his wife. He
wondered what would happen if she were awake and waiting for him. If
she saw that he had on somebody else's name tag.
The door was unlocked.
And the light was on.
He wondered if he could duck into the bedroom without being seen, and
then someone leaped at him and he knew it was too late.
"Oh, James dear!" she cried, throwing her arms around Charles' neck.
"When you walked out of here, I thought you'd never come back to me!"
Charles looked at the marilyn's name tag with slow horror and realized
that in his preoccupation, out of sheer force of habit, he had simply
said to the cab driver, "Take me home," and the driver had looked at
the address on his tag and complied. The apartment building so much
resembled Charles' own that he hadn't known the difference, and he
hadn't bothered to look at the number on the door.
When Charles walked in, this Marilyn, Stasia her name was, had looked
at his name tag and thought he was her James. She didn't have the
slightest idea of who he really was.
Then Charles closed his eyes, swallowed, and knew something else.
It really didn't make the least bit of difference _who_ he was. And of
course, the solution to all his troubles was obvious.
With a sigh, Charles leaned over Stasia and kissed her.