District Leader Howard Morely leaned back in his seat, to glance down at
the bay. Idly, he allowed his gaze to wander over the expanse of water
between the two blunt points of land, then he looked back at the
skeletonlike spire which jutted upward from the green hills he had just
passed over. He could remember when that ruin had been a support for one
of the world's great bridges.
Now, a crumbling symbol of the past, it stubbornly resisted the attacks
of the weather, as it had once resisted the far more powerful blasts of
explosives. Obstinately, it pointed its rusty length skyward, to remind
the observer of bygone conflict--and more.
Together with the tangled cables, dimly seen in the shoal water, the
line of wreckage in the channel, and the weed-covered strip of torn
concrete which led through the hills, it testified to the arrival of the
air age. Bridges, highways, and harbors alike had passed their day of
usefulness.
Not far from the ruined bridge support, Morely could see the huge, well
maintained intake of one of the chemical extraction plants. He shook his
head at the contrast.
"That eyesore should be pulled down," he muttered. "Should have been
pulled down long ago. Suggested it in a report, but I suppose it never
got to the Old Man. He depends on his staff too much. If I had the
region, I'd--"
He shook his head. He was not the regional director--yet. Some day, the
old director would retire. Then, Central Coördination would be examining
the records of various district leaders, looking for a successor. Then--
He shrugged and turned his attention to his piloting of the borrowed
helicopter. It was a clumsy machine, and he had to get in to Regional
Headquarters in time for the morning conference. There would be no sense
it getting involved in employee traffic--not if he could avoid it.
The conference, his informant had told him, would be a little out of the
ordinary. It seemed that the Old Man had become somewhat irritated by
the excess privileges allowed in a few of the eastern districts. And he
was going to jack everyone up about it. After that would come the usual
period of reports, and possibly a few special instructions. Some of the
leaders would have pet projects to put forward, he knew. They always
did. Morely smiled to himself. He'd have something to come up with, too.
And this conference might put a crimp in Harwood's style. Morely had
carefully worded his progress report to make contrast with the type of
report that he knew would come from District One. George Harwood had
been allowing quite a few extra privileges to his people, stating that
it was good for morale. And, during the past couple of months, he'd
seemed to be proving his point. Certainly, the production of the
employees from the peninsula had been climbing. Harwood, Morely decided
would be the most logical person--after himself--for the region when the
Old Man retired. In fact, for a time, it had looked as though the
director of District One was going to be a dangerous rival.
But this conference would change things. Morely smiled slowly as he
thought of possible ways of shading the odds.
He looked ahead. Commuters were streaming in from the peninsula now, to
make for the factory parking lots. His face tightened a little. Why, he
wondered, had the Old Man decided to call the conference at this hour?
He could have delayed a little, until commuter traffic was less heavy.
He'd been a district leader once. And before that, under the old
government, a field leader. He should know how annoying the employee
classes could be. And to force his leaders to mingle with commuting
employees in heavy traffic!
* * * * *
For that matter, everyone seemed to be conspiring to make things
uncomfortable today. Those heavy-handed mechanics in the district motor
pool, for example. They'd failed him today. His own sleek machine, with
its distinctive markings was still being repaired. And he'd been forced
to use this unmarked security patrol heli. The machine wasn't really too
bad, of course. It had a superb motor, and it carried identification
lights and siren, which could be used if necessary. But it resembled
some lower-class citizen's family carryall. And, despite its
modifications, it still handled like one. Morely grimaced and eased the
wheel left a little. The helicopter swung in a slow arc.
Helis were rising from the factory lots, to interlace with incoming
ships before joining with the great stream headed south. The night
workers were heading for home. Morely hovered his machine for a moment,
to watch the ships jockey for position, sometimes barely avoiding
collisions in the stream of traffic. He watched one ship, which edged
forward, stopped barely in time to avoid being hit, edged forward again,
and finally managed to block traffic for a time while its inept driver
fooled with the controls and finally got on course.
"Quarrelsome, brawling fools," he muttered. "Even among themselves, they
can't get along."
He looked around, noting that the air over the Administrative Group was
comparatively free of traffic. To be sure, he would have to cross the
traffic lines, but he could take the upper lanes, avoiding all but
official traffic. A guard might challenge, but he could use his
identifying lights. He wouldn't be halted. He corrected his course a
little, glanced at the altimeter, and put his ship into a climb.
At length, he eased his ship over the parklike area over Administrative
Square and hovered over the parking entry. A light blinked on his dash,
to tell him that all the official spaces were occupied. He grunted.
"Wonder they couldn't leave a clear space in Official. They know I'm
coming in for conference."
He moved the control wheel, allowing his ship to slide over to a
shopping center parking slot, and hovered over the entry, debating. He
could park here and take the sub-surface to Administrative, or he could
use the surface lot just outside of the headquarters group. Of course,
the director frowned on use of the surface lot, except in emergency. The
underground lots were designated for all normal parking. Morely thought
over the problem, ignoring the helis which hovered, waiting for him to
clear the center of the landing area. Finally, his hand started for the
throttle. He would settle in the landing slot, let the guards shove his
heli to a space, and avoid any conflict with the director's orders
regarding the surface lot.
* * * * *
Suddenly, there was a sputtering roar. Someone had become impatient at
the delay. A small sports heli swept by, impellers reversed, and dropped
rapidly toward the entry to the underground parking space. Morely's ship
rocked a little in the air blast.
For an instant, Morely felt a sharp pain which gnawed at the pit of his
stomach. His head was abruptly light, and his hand, apparently of its
own volition, closed over the throttle knob.
This joy boy was overdue for a lesson.
Morely measured the distance quickly, judging the instant when the other
pilot would have to repitch his impellers and halt his downward rush. He
allowed his own heavy ship to wallow earthward.
Scant feet from ground surface, the sportster pilot flicked his pitch
control and pulled his throttle out for the brief burst of power which
would allow him to drop gently to the landing platform.
Morely grinned savagely as he saw the impellers below him change pitch
and start to move faster. He twisted his own impellers to full pitch and
pulled out the throttle for a sudden, roaring surge of power, then swung
the control column, jerking his ship up and away. As he steadied his
heli and cut power, he looked down.
The powerful downblast had completely upset the sportster pilot's
calculations. The small ship, struck by the gale from above, had listed
to the right and gone out of control, grazing one of the heavy splinter
shutters at the side of the landing slot. The ship lay on its side,
amidst the wreckage of its impellers.
Morely flicked on his warning siren and lights, then feathered his own
impellers, dropping his ship in free fall. He dropped to the grassy area
by the landing slot, ignoring the other ships which scattered like
frightened chickens, to give him room. At the last instant, he twisted
the impellers to full pitch again, pulled out the throttle for a moment,
then slammed the lever to the closed position. His ship touched down on
springy turf, its landing gear settling gently to accept the weight. A
klaxon was sounding, and warning lights flashed from the landing slot,
to warn ships away from an attempted landing.
It would be a long time before the shiny, new sportster would be in
condition to sweep into another parking area. And, after paying his fine
and taking care of his extra duties, it would be an even longer time
before the employee-pilot would have much business in the luxury
shopping center, anyway.
Morely smiled bitterly as he closed the door of his ship. It didn't pay
to cross Howard Morely--ever.
He walked slowly toward the landing slot, motioning imperiously to an
approaching guard.
"Have someone place that ship for me," he ordered, jerking a thumb back
toward his heli. "Then come over to that wreck. I shall want words with
the pilot." He held out his small identification folder.
The guard's glance went to the folder. For an instant, he studied the
card exposed before him, then he straightened and saluted, his face
expressionless.
"Yes, sir." He signaled another guard, then pointed toward Morely's
ship, and to the landing slot. "I can go with you now."
The two went down in the elevator and walked over to the wrecked
sportster. A slender man was crawling from a door. When the man was
clear of his ship, Morely beckoned.
"Over here, Fellow," he commanded.
The sportster pilot approached, the indignation on his face changing to
bewilderment, then dismay as he noted Morely's insignia and the attitude
of the two men who faced him.
Morely turned to the guard.
"Get me his name, identification number, and the name of his leader."
"Yes, sir."
The guard turned to the man, who grimaced a little with pain as he
slowly put a hand in his pocket. Wordlessly, he extracted a bulky
folder, from which he took a small booklet. He held out the booklet to
the guard.
Morely held out a hand. "Never mind," he said. "Simply put him in
custody. I'll turn this over to his leader myself."
He had noted the cover design on the booklet. It was from District
One--Harwood's district. He flipped the cover open, ascertaining that
there was no transfer notice. He'd give this to Harwood all right--at
the right time. He looked at his watch.
"I shall want my heli in about three hours," he announced. "See to it
that it's ready. And have a man check the fuel and see if the ship's
damaged in any way." He turned away.
* * * * *
The district leaders sat before the large conference table. Among them,
close to the director's place, was Morely, his face fixed in an
expression of alert interest. His informant had been right. The man must
have gotten a look at the Old Man's notes. The regional director was
criticizing the laxity in inspection and control of employee activities.
He objected to the excessive luxury activity allowed to some members of
the employee classes, as well as to the overabundance of leisure allowed
in several cases, some of which he described in detail.
He especially pointed up the fact that a recent heli meet had been
almost dominated by employee class entries. And he pointed out the fact
that there was considerable rehabilitation work to be done in bombed
areas. It could be done by employees, during their time away from their
subsistence jobs. That was all community time, he reminded.
It was all very well, he said, to allow the second- and even third-class
citizens a certain amount of leisure recreation. That kept morale up.
But they were certainly not to be allowed any position of dominance,
either individually, or as a class. That, he said, was something else
again. It was precisely the sort of thing that had led to the collapse
and downfall of many previous civilizations.
"Keep 'em busy," he ordered. "So busy they don't have time to think up
mischief to get into. Remember, gentlemen, second- and third-class
citizens have no rights--only privileges. And privileges may be
withdrawn at any time."
He rapped sharply on the table and sat down, looking at the leader of
District One.
One by one, the district leaders made their verbal reports of activity.
Occasionally, questions of production or work quotas were brought up and
decided. Morely waited.
At last, he made his own report, emphasizing the fact that his district
had exceeded its quotas--subsistence, luxury, and rehabilitation--for
the fourth consecutive quarter. He cited a couple of community
construction projects he had ordered and which were well on the way to
completion, and brought out the fact that his people, at least, were
being inspected constantly and thoroughly.
Also, he suggested, if any time remained to be used, or if leisure
activity threatened to become excessive, it might be well to turn some
attention outside of the old urban areas. There was considerable bomb
damage in the suburban and former farming areas, and the scrap from some
of the ruined structures could be stockpiled for disposal to factories
and community reclamation plants.
Further, a beautification program for the entire region might keep some
of the employee class busy for some time. And some of the ex-farmers
among the lower classes might find it pleasant to work once again with
the soil, instead of their normal work in the synthetic food labs or
machine shops. With the director's permission, he could start the
program by removing the useless tower and wreckage at the bay channel,
and by salvaging the metal from it. Of course, he admitted, it was a
trifle beyond his own authority, since most of the channel was in
District One. The regional director cast him a sharp glance, then
considered the suggestion. At last, he nodded.
"It might be well," he decided. "Go ahead, Morely. Take care of that
detail." He looked over at his executive. "Have Planning draw up
something on salvage and beautification in the former rural areas," he
ordered. He looked about the room.
"And the rest of you might try looking over your own districts. You
don't have to wait for a directive, and every one of you can find some
improvement that could be made. If it's a district line matter, submit
some plan for mutual agreement to my office." He rose and went to the
door.
Morely waited, watching George Harwood. The leader of District One
gathered his papers, looked down the table for an instant, then went
out. Morely followed him at a discreet distance.
As Harwood neared the door to the regional director's office, Morely
caught up with him.
"Oh, Harwood," he said loudly. "Caught one of your people in a flagrant
case of reckless flying this morning. Why don't you bear down a little
on those fellows of yours? This one seemed to think he was winning a
heli meet."
He held out the folder he had confiscated. "Here's his identification. I
had the guards hold him for you. Second-class citizen. Must've had a lot
of spare time, to get the luxury credits and purchase authorization for
that ship of his."
Harwood looked at him, a faint expression of annoyance crossing his
face. Then, he glanced at the open door nearby, and comprehension grew
on his face. He took the folder, nodded wordlessly, and walked rapidly
past Morely, who turned to watch him.
As Harwood swung through the door to an elevator, Morely smiled
appreciatively. That had been a smart trick, he thought. Have to
remember that one. No argument to disturb the Old Man. Not even positive
proof that Morely hadn't been talking to empty space. But there was an
answer to that, too, if one was alert. He walked through the doorway
into the director's office.
The regional director looked up.
"Oh, Morely. You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, sir." Morely stood at rigid attention. "I just thought of all
those useless highways around the countryside. Of course, a few of them
have been camouflaged and converted to temporary and emergency heli
parking lots, but there's still a lot of waste concrete about that could
be removed. It would improve the camouflage of the groups. It could be
divided into community projects for spare time work, sir."
"Very good idea. If this stalemate we're in should develop into another
war, it would be well to have as few landmarks as possible. And some of
these people do have too much time on their hands. They sit around,
thinking of their so-called rights. Next thing we know, some of the
second-class citizens'll be screaming for the privilege of a vote. Set
it up in your district, Morely. We'll see how it works out, and the rest
of the district leaders can follow your example."
He looked sharply at Morely. "Heard a little disturbance in the hall
just before you came in."
"Oh, that." Morely contrived a look of confusion. "I'm sorry, sir. I
didn't mean anyone to hear that. It was just that I had a minor bit of
business with Leader Harwood. One of his people nearly knocked me out of
the air this morning, over a parking area, and I confiscated his
identification. I tried to give it to Harwood after the conference, but
he must have been in a hurry. I caught up with him and gave him the
folder."
"So I heard." The director smiled wryly. "Anything more?"
"No, sir." Morely saluted and left.
"That," he told himself, "should drop Harwood a few points."
He went to the parking area to reclaim his helicopter. Better get back
to his district and start setting up those community projects. Too, he
would have to run a check inspection or so this evening. See to it his
sector men weren't getting lax. He'd check on Bond tonight.
* * * * *
He flew back to District Twelve, dropped his helicopter into the landing
area, and made his way to his office.
Inside, he went to a file, from which he took his spot-inspection
folder. Carrying it to his desk, he checked it. Yes, Bond's sector was
due for a spot inspection. Might be well to make a detailed check of one
of the employees in that sector, too. Morely touched a button on his
desk.
Almost immediately, a clerk stood in the doorway.
"Get me the master quarters file for Sector Fourteen," Morely ordered.
The clerk went out, to return with two long file drawers. Quickly, he
set them side by side on a small table, which he pushed over to his
superior's desk.
Idly, Morely fingered through the cards, noting the indexing and
condition of the file. He nodded in approval, then gave the clerk a nod
of dismissal. At least, his people were keeping their files in order.
He reached into a pocket, to withdraw a notebook. Turning its pages, he
found a few of the entries he had made on population changes, then
cross-checked them against the files. All were posted and properly
cross-indexed. Again, he nodded in satisfaction.
Evidently, that last dressing down he had given the files section had
done some good. For a moment, he considered calling in the chief clerk
and complimenting him. Then, he changed his mind.
"No use giving him a swelled head," he told himself.
He drew a file drawer to him, running his finger down its length. At
last, he pulled a card at random. It was colored light blue.
He put it back. Didn't want to check a group leader. He'd be a
first-class citizen, and entitled to privacy. He pulled another card
from a different section of the file. This one was salmon pink--an
assistant group leader. He examined it. The man was a junior equipment
designer in one of the communications plants. For a moment, Morely
tapped the card against his desk. Actually, he had wanted a basic
employee, but it might be well to check one of the leadmen. He could
have the man accompany him while he made a further check on one of the
apartments in his sub-group. Again, he looked at the card.
Paul Graham, he noted, was forty-two years of age. He had three
children--was an electronics designer, junior grade. His professional
profile showed considerable ability and training, but the security
profile showed a couple of threes. Nothing really serious, but he would
be naturally expected to be a second-class citizen--or below. It was not
an unusual card.
Morely looked at the quarters code. Graham lived in Apartment 7A, Group
723, which was in Block 1022, Sector Fourteen. It would be well to check
his quarters first, then check, say, 7E. Morely went through the
numerical file, found the card under 7E, and flipped the pages of his
notebook to a blank sheet, upon which he copied the data he needed from
the two cards.
He put the notebook in his pocket and returned the cards to their places
in the file, then riffled the entire file once more, to be sure there
would be no clue as to which cards he had consulted. Finally, he touched
the button on his desk again.
Once more, the clerk stood in the doorway.
"This file seems to be satisfactory," he was told. "You may bring in the
correspondence now."
The correspondence was no heavier than usual. Morely flipped through the
routine matter, occasionally selecting a report or letter and
abstracting data. Tomorrow, he could check performance by referring to
these. At last, he turned to the separate pile of directives, production
and man-hour reports, and other papers which demanded more attention
than the routine paper.
He worked through the stack of paper, occasionally calling upon his
clerk for file data, sometimes making a communicator call. At last, he
pushed away the last remaining report and leaned back. He spun his chair
about, activated the large entertainment screen, and spent some time
watching a playlet. At the end of the play, he glanced at his watch,
then turned back to his desk. He leaned forward to touch a button on his
communicator.
As the viewsphere lit, he flicked on the two-way video, then spoke.
"Get me Sector Leader Bond." He snapped the communicator off almost
before the operator could acknowledge, then spun about, switching his
entertainment screen to ground surface scan. A scene built up, showing a
view from his estate in the hills.
* * * * *
There were some buildings on the surface--mostly homes of upper grade
citizens, who preferred the open air, and could afford to have a surface
estate in addition to their quarters in the groups. These homes, for the
most part, were located in wooded areas, where their owners could find
suitable fishing and hunting.
Most of the traces of damage done by the bombings of the Nineties were
gone from about the estate areas by now, and the few which remained were
being eliminated. Morely increased the magnification, to watch a few
animals at a waterhole. He could do a little hunting in a few weeks.
Take a nice leave. He drew a deep breath.
Those years after the end of the last war had been hectic, what with new
organizational directives, the few sporadic revolts, the integration of
homecoming fighters, and the final, tight set-up. But it had all been
worth it. Everything was running smoothly now.
The second- and third-class citizens had learned to accept their status,
and some few of them had even found they liked it. At least, now they
had far more security. There was subsistence in plenty for all
producers, thanks to the war-born advances in technology, and to the
highly organized social framework. To be sure, a few still felt uneasy
in the underground quarters, but the necessity for protection from
bombing in another war had been made clear, and they'd just have to get
used to conditions. And, there were a very few who, unable to get or
hold employment, existed somehow in the spartan discomfort of the
subsistence quarters.
For most, however, there was minor luxury, and a plenitude of
necessities. And there was considerable freedom of action and choice as
well as full living comfort for the full citizens, who had proved
themselves to be completely trustworthy, and who were deemed fit to hold
key positions.
The communicator beeped softly, and he glanced at the sphere. It showed
the face of Harold Bond, leader of the fourteenth sector. The district
leader snapped on his scanner.
"Report to me here in my office at eighteen hours, Bond."
"Yes, sir."
"And you might be sure your people are all in quarters this evening."