There was a knock at the door. "Air tax," an authoritative voice
called, and the door slid open to reveal an impassionate face
surrounded by uniform. "Your respirators, please," the face directed in
a monotone. "Monthly check."
Arthur Dunlop extended his wrist, and the man, frowning importantly,
noted several numbers from the respirator dial and wrote them in a
small black book; he carefully examined the part that would tell if
the device had been removed.
Arthur resisted an impulse to ask the man for a refund for the Carbon
Dioxide he had exhaled during the past month to see what reaction
he might get. But the man, eager to get ahead, would welcome the
opportunity to report someone less patriotic than he, and there would
follow an investigation. Investigations were taken as a matter of
course, naturally, and even investigators were being investigated with
confusing regularity. But under the present circumstances, Arthur could
hardly afford the risk. Entirely too much was at stake.
* * * * *
"You could use a new respirator," the air tax man said in the tone of a
man who had said this same thing many times before.
"Yes," Arthur agreed mechanically. "What kind would you suggest?"
"What kinds do you like?" the man said testily.
Arthur named the various kinds and the merits professed by each, to
show that he had been attentive to the telecasts. The man, secure in
the knowledge that Arthur was loyal to the cause, left.
Arthur sighed a vague sigh that could mean almost anything and watched
Helen stretch her long limbs, smooth and sensuous beneath their thin
coverings. He wondered what thoughts, if any, were in her mind, but her
lovely face was vacuous and non-committal as she reclined to dutifully
watch the screen as a good citizen should.
* * * * *
The evening grew old, and with its aging came the insistence of various
televised personalities that each product cavorting about the screen
was undoubtedly the best possible, and anyone who didn't agree was
most certainly an idiot of the most idiotic sort. Actually, since the
government directed the manufacture of all commodities, it mattered
little which product was bought, so long as they were bought. Finally--
"Time to go to bed," a grandfatherly individual intoned gently from
the set. "Remember: to bed and to rise at a time not late, makes one
healthy and wise for the Super State."
Arthur grimaced at the benign gentleman's countenance, but Helen set
about pushing the buttons that would transform the room into a bedroom.
Tables slid from sight, twin beds appeared, the lights dimmed.
They undressed in the dimness, without conversation, as they had these
many years. It was as though they were separated by miles instead of
only a few feet, each unaware of the other's presence.
"I'm going to grab a fast shower," he told her and headed for the
shower stall. He heard her answering murmur, as he closed the door of
the airtight cubicle. Fingers ran over the dials, and invisible rays
caressed his naked body, cleansing it of impurities with swift silent
radiation.
When he stepped once more into the main room, Helen was lying unmoving
on her bed. The television set was blank, and an almost inaudible
hypnotic hum came from it, soothing, compelling, lulling. He sat on
the edge of the bed, listening in fascination to the sound. Slowly, it
faded, slowly, slowly....
He caught himself starting to doze, and he sat upright on the bed
straining to hear the evasive hum. He shook his head violently to clear
it. He wondered how many persons were aware that the noise was actually
a high-frequency voice-recording which in effect hypnotized persons
into sleep, and then instilled into each one's subconsciousness a
faith in the glories of the government. Yet even when you knew, it was
difficult to resist.
Stealthily, he rose and dressed again in dark silence. He then made
his way across the room to the shower stall, entered, closed the door
securely. A manipulation of the dials, a soft pressure on a portion of
one wall, and a section slid back to reveal a radio apparatus.
Arthur put the microphone to his lips, spoke swiftly into it, making
contact. A furtive voice, crackled and staticky answered in code.
Arthur gave his part of the ritual.
"Right," the voice said, relaxing a bit. "Everything okay?"
"Simply great," Arthur said, putting a smile into the phrase. It was
good to hear George Keating's voice again. "How's everything up there?"
"Not bad. Nobody suspects anything as far as we know. Shipments are
getting a bit slow, but I expect they'll be heavier before long. Ready
to spring it?"
"Yes," Arthur said. "Oh, one thing though," frowning, "the underground
suspects there's a WBI man in my unit."
"Anything further? Have they narrowed him down at all."
"I don't think so. I'm going to a meeting tonight; I managed to talk
Julie into it. If I can, I'll contact you later."
"Right-o."
Arthur closed the circuit and sealed the wall again, turning the dials
to a random location. He opened the door of the cubicle and peered
cautiously into the gloom. He thought he detected a furtive movement,
but it was only Helen turning on the bed.
He crossed the room, noiselessly ascended to the roof and leaped
outward. Blades unfolded to churn the darkness. It was a Stallman
Rotor--their commercials seemed the least offensive--and it deposited
him gently beside his house; just as gently as any Ronson would have
done.
Ahead of him, the stars glittered frostily in the night. He breathed
the crystal air in great intakes of breath, trying not to remember it
was taxed. Lines from Walter Scott leaped unaccountably to his mind:
"Breathes there a man," he thought, "with soul so dead, who never to
himself hath said, 'This is my own, my native land.'" He felt the last
word could be justly changed to "air" to fit this overtaxed era in
which he lived.
The moon was out, and he stopped to stare at it. Across its surface, in
letters of fire, were the words: "Buy Air Bonds, A Solid Investment."
There was little practical need for the ad; pay deductions were
arbitrary. Shaking his head sadly, Arthur Dunlop walked into the night.
Night beckoned, and Arthur Dunlop followed its call. He went willfully,
but he could not have resisted had he wanted to. The streets were
dark, lit only by the moon and the stars, and houses were dark phantoms
rising in the night, their owners lulled to sleep by the omnipresent
television receivers. But he tried not to think of that. He thought
of the cool velvet evening which lay before him, and of the girl who
waited quietly in the shadows of a deserted park.
He thought of that as he walked into the night, and he thought also of
things more serious, and suddenly--
--a voice cried: "Stop!" It was a mechanical voice, tinny, without
emotion. "It is the time of curfew. You are not allowed out. Your name?"
Arthur stood, petrified, and stared at a black robot face before him.
He heard a click, loud in the darkness, and knew that his picture had
been taken.
The sound jarred him from his immobility, and he turned and scampered
into the darkness.
"Stop," the robot commanded, "Stop!" and a shaft of light darted from
its forehead, piercing the darkness, shriveling grass beneath Arthur's
feet. But the ray missed him, and he darted down the street, amid the
pounding echoes of his flight.
After several blocks, he threw himself panting into a doorway and
looked back down the street. Nothing. Silence and moonlight and
darkness, and only his own labored breathing while his chest rose and
fell in unaccustomed gasps.
But they had his picture! In seconds, a giant machine could find a
similar picture in its files, complete with every detail of information
concerning him. They might get him before the work was complete. If he
could only evade them until he could turn this to advantage. He felt in
his pocket for the radioactive silver disc he knew was there.
* * * * *
Down the street, a shadow moved, and he held his breath. In a shaft of
moonlight, black metal glinted darkly. With a muffled cry he slipped
from the doorway and flew down the street, trying to still the noise he
made. Behind him, no sounds came to indicate pursuit.
He darted across the street, went into an alley, crossed another
street. Finally, he came to the park. He stopped. Fearfully, he looked
behind him. No one. He walked forward.
The park was a mass of tree and shadow, indistinguishable. Softly, he
called, "Julie." No answer. "Julie."
A gentle movement, and someone disengaged from the shadows, glided to
him. Someone soft and warm--and feminine. He could smell the elusive
taint of her perfume even before she entered his arms.
"You're late," she said.
"I was detained."