Hendley thought suddenly of ABC-331--of Ann. Did they know about her?
Had she found someone waiting when she returned to her room? Or had she
been caught even earlier?
The Investigator swiveled in his chair to face Hendley directly,
looking down at him, his expression tolerant and benign. "As of the
moment you failed to report to the infirmary in response to the notice
delivered at--let me see--9:35 this morning, your number was fed to the
master board for automatic recording and analysis." The Investigator
smiled. "Would you care to know exactly what time you had coffee in the
vending cafe across from the Agricultural Research Center? Or just when
you entered that newsview theater this afternoon?"
Hendley parried the smile with one of his own. He knew that the
information was supposed to impress and frighten him. But he thought:
They can only track the identity disc when I used it, or tried to use
it. That wouldn't tell them about the meeting with Ann. Aloud he said,
"I guess you know the whole story then. There isn't much point to all
this."
"We are less interested in what you did than why," the Investigator
said. "Though of course knowing precisely what your activities
were helps us to understand their pattern." He leaned forward
confidentially. "There is a gap--between the time you left the theater
and the time you tried to have dinner. You might as well tell me about
it, because I'll find out as soon as all the reports are in."
Relief flooded through Hendley. They didn't know about Ann! How
foolish to try to take him in with so transparent a warning--as if the
computers needed time to correlate reports!
"You must have found her very attractive," the Investigator said
suddenly.
Hendley was caught unprepared. In his relief he had begun to relax
into overconfidence. Now, stunned, he felt the blood draining from
his face--a sure betrayal of his emotions. "Her?" he questioned
automatically. "I--I don't understand." But his thoughts darted this
way and that in his skull like trapped particles. The guard at the
museum, he thought. But there had been no careful search for Hendley
there. She _must_ have escaped. How did the Investigator know about
her? Was it a trick? Was he only guessing? Had Hendley then given
himself away, letting his reaction to a simple ruse betray him?
"You needn't bother to pretend," the Investigator said. His expression
remained kindly, sympathetic, warmly understanding. In spite of his
predicament Hendley felt drawn to the man. But that was the idea,
he caught himself. Gain the confidence of the adult as you did of
the child. Make him feel helpless in the face of superior knowledge,
superior skills, superior forces. Helpless--but with nothing to fear.
"It's generally a woman," the Investigator went on. "You shouldn't
feel that you're the only one who's been tempted. There are certain
women"--he spread his hands in a gesture that said: We are both men of
understanding. We know about these things. There is nothing to conceal
from each other--"usually 5-Daywomen who have lost sight of the true
goal, who think only of today's physical pleasure. Often we can help
them--when we find them. Such women are generally young and quite
attractive, even beautiful. Beauty in a way is their undoing. They are
unable to see beyond it." He coughed apologetically. "Just as men are
sometimes unable to see beyond it. It's easy for them to make a man
forget _his_ goal."
But Hendley was no longer listening. Beautiful, he thought,
remembering how ABC-331 had seemed to protest when he tried to tell her
how beautiful she was. What had she said? "It's what I'm supposed to
be." Almost bitterly, her soft lips twisting wryly. What had she meant?
Was she one of those women the Investigator referred to? No! That, too,
was a trick to make him talk.
"There was nothing like that," he said firmly. "There was no woman. I'm
already Assigned."
"And you're perfectly happy with your Assigned?" the older man shot at
him quickly.
"Of course."
The Investigator frowned. Disappointment and disapproval were clearly
reflected in his gaze. "I'm trying to help you, TRH-247," he said
slowly. "But you must cooperate. What you have done is a grave
infraction of the rules of order of the Organization. You must know
that. I had hoped you'd be frank with me, as I have been with you.
Together we might find some way of lessening the penalty. But--"
"Would the penalty be less if there had been a woman? Is that what you
mean?"
There was a slight stiffening of the Investigator's handsome features,
hardly visible to the eye, yet subtly altering his friendly aspect into
something sterner, colder. "You choose not to talk?"
"All I said was that there was no woman."
"You must have had a reason. Are you asking me to believe that you
acted purely on a whim? You failed to report for work, TRH-247! You
threw away an entire day's work credit against your tax debt and risked
far more in penalties! No sane man would do that without a reason. And
I have checked your examination reports thoroughly. You're in excellent
health, mentally and physically. There is no evidence of emotional
instability. This is the only defection in your record for the past ten
years. Otherwise I would not even be trying to help you!"
He was too angry, Hendley thought with surprise. Was he so unused to
defiance? Was it always easy for them? And suddenly Hendley knew what
he was going to say. In a flash of insight he saw behind the shallow
façade of fatherly wisdom before him. Here was only another man trapped
by the system, another button-pusher who knew only the answers fed to
him by his computer, a man too eager to be sure and safe, too anxious
to have everything come out right and gain new tax credits for him. He
had only to be told something he could understand--something that would
fall into a familiar pattern.
"I had a reason," Hendley said.
"What, then?"
"The Merger."
Startled, the Investigator gaped at him, his composure abruptly
shattered. "The Merger?"
"Yes. Maybe it was foolish, but I didn't report for work today as
a protest." Hendley paused, reminded of one of the exhibits in the
Historical Museum. "It was like a--a strike. That's something workers
used to do long ago when they wanted to protest."
"Yes, yes, I know--go on!" the Investigator broke in eagerly.
"You wanted to know where I was this afternoon. I was in the Historical
Museum. I like to go there. I like to know how things used to be. I was
against the Merger all along. It--it's like we're all being swallowed
up in something that's too big even to know we exist. In the old days
being a man meant something important in itself. Our ancestors--they
weren't just parts of a machine!"
"Ah!" The Investigator almost beamed. His eyes held a gleam of
pleasure. "An ideological protest!"
"I guess you could call it that," Hendley said slowly, wondering at the
reaction his words had produced. "Surely I'm not the only one who's
ever felt this way."
"Yes, yes, you're quite right," the gray-haired man said with some
enthusiasm. "But an active protest! That is rare in this entire
section. Why, I've had only one similar case in three years as a senior
Investigator!"
Hendley nodded soberly, concealing a satisfaction which held a trace of
malice. Tricks could work both ways. And yet what he had said was not
really dishonest. He had merely selected that part of the truth which
he wanted to reveal. Strangely enough, less than twenty hours earlier,
as he had lain in bed while his vaguely formed protest crystallized
into a decision, the feeling and the ideas he had just expressed had
seemed all-important. Now it was more vital to protect a woman who had
lied to him and disappeared--whom he might never be able to find again,
even if she wanted to be found.
"This puts an entirely different complexion on your case," the
Investigator said, his enthusiasm no longer restrained. "Entirely
different! Tell me, when did these symptoms first begin? Obviously they
didn't appear overnight. When did you first feel this intense dislike
of the idea of the Merger?"
"I don't know," Hendley said honestly. Should he mention the childhood
escapade? Had that been significant even at so early an age? Evidently
the morale computer didn't think so, for at some stage the fact had
been eliminated from his record. Presumably it had appeared to be a
meaningless youthful prank.
He thought of his dream of standing on a beach and seeing all of the
other beaches within sight blend into one vast, featureless desert. On
impulse he recounted the dream, deliberately going into great detail.
As an added embellishment at the end he said, "I've had the same dream
several times."
"Splendid!" the Investigator exclaimed, as if Hendley had passed some
kind of a test. "But surely, as a student of history, TRH-247, you must
realize that the Merger was inevitable, that it is the culmination of
centuries of social progress under the Organization?"
"Inevitable doesn't mean good," Hendley said. "_If_ it was inevitable."
"An excellent point," the Investigator said warmly. "But in this
instance irrelevant, of course. Aren't you willing to admit that
freedom is good? That it has always been, in different guises, man's
real dream? That an Organization which makes this possible for all men
is the true fulfillment of that ageless dream?"
The Investigator's eyes glinted with a zealot's fever. He was so close
to Freeman status, Hendley thought, so close to the goal. How could he
believe anything which might stain or vitiate that prospect?
"Consider the record of history," the gray-haired man said, his broad
hand emphatically slapping the smooth white top of his desk. "The
development of the Eastern and Western Organizations was a natural
evolution. The very fact that in the end each arrived at the same
concept of society's structure and purpose is proof enough! Why should
the two forms of Organization remain separate when the unalterable
pressure of man's own desires had made them finally the same in
everything but name? Why shouldn't they merge into one great and final
Organization, one supreme affirmation of man's right to freedom!"
Hendley was silent. The truth was that he had no clearly formulated
answers. Even in his own mind he was divided. The lure of freedom could
not be shaken off. And he could not argue with the fact that, along
their separate routes over the years, East and West had arrived at
the same social and economic structure, the same ordered relationship
between the individual and the mass of society, the same ultimate
goal of freedom. War between the two had ended not because weapons
and opportunities ceased to exist, but because, during the century of
recovery after the great atomic war which had left both societies weak
and vast areas of the earth barren and uninhabitable, differences had
gradually eroded until they ceased to be a source of conflict.
"How much do you really know of our history?" the Investigator
demanded. "How much do you know, for instance, about the tax debt and
how it all began?"
"Not very much," Hendley admitted. "The general facts--"
"But you must go beyond the general facts, TRH-247!" the Investigator
declaimed. "Consider the brilliance of that single concept--the very
foundation of the Organization as we know it today!"
With animation the gray-haired man launched into a discourse on the
stroke of genius which had launched man on his upward journey toward
Freeman status. Once, it was true, there had been a time when men
worked for themselves, were conscious of their individuality, and were
paid in some form of money according to their capacity to earn. That
money was used by all men to buy the services and necessities of life
now provided entirely by the Organization--and to pay for recreation
and leisure, the twin aspects of freedom. But few could afford more
than a limited glimpse of these pleasures. Many never achieved them at
all. Men fought one another for them, and the weak were crushed by the
strong.
Somewhere along the line a point was reached when the money received
for work was not enough to pay taxes to the government, which was the
clumsy, early form of the Organization, and still buy the necessities
of food, clothing, and lodging, to say nothing of leisure and
recreation. The limited inhabitable land was one problem. Exploding
population and ever-increasing automation complicated the situation. At
that time an anonymous government worker originated the revolutionary
concept of the tax debt. Every worker was allowed to carry over part
of his taxes as a debt to the government, thus keeping more spendable
money for himself and his needs. This preliminary measure proved
inadequate. There were too many workers, labor was inefficiently
used, and the spiraling cost of even that early form of Organization
could not be held down. A point of balance was passed. It became
impossible for the tax debt to be paid in the old way. It was only
natural that in the end the worker should be employed directly by the
Organization--that he should finally work not for money, but for credit
against his debt.
The Corporate Tax Debt followed closely upon the origin of the personal
debt--with the same result. Within the span of a few generations the
Western Organization arrived at the crude, rough form of an economic
and social structure already realized in the East. The Organization
owned, controlled, supplied, managed everything. Concurrently with
that first century of the Organization's growth to maturity--and in
large part because of its development--automated efficiency came into
its own. Computers came more and more to dominate life. Under their
guidance, wasteful and unrewarding ventures were gradually eliminated
from man's work and his dreams--like the costly and unsuccessful
attempts to invade outer space. Man's world narrowed--but man
flourished.
Then came the war--a residue, the Investigator asserted, from the
hostilities of the pre-Organization world. Only the wisdom of the
computers enabled civilization to survive, for, a score of years before
the first bomb fell, the computers on the Peace Planning Boards of both
East and West had directed the movement of the cities underground.
The second century was one of recovery from the war, of continuing
progress toward a more streamlined, automated and efficient society,
and of the slow but steady return toward the surface of the earth.
But if those years presented unusual obstacles--new ways of producing
foods had constantly to be found, new methods of decontaminating air
and water, new systems of construction and transport, new ways to
accommodate a population which entered another phase of explosion
in spite of the limitations of underground life--if there were
difficulties, there were also advantages.
"At last the opportunities were present," the Investigator cried with
unflagging vigor, "for a truly controlled progress. Even the strictures
of space underground became an aid rather than a deterrent. Controls
were easier to put into effect, easier to enforce. And we had the
tools, TRH-247--the computers to guide our way. No longer were we
stumbling blindly, planned progress was possible!"
"But _is_ it progress?" Hendley interjected defensively, for the first
time breaking into the Investigator's narrative. "Haven't we lost a lot
of things? That's what I feel. It seems to me those early societies had
something we don't have. They were always moving outward, discovering
new horizons, exploring--even if they blundered, they tried. We're not
trying. Our world isn't expanding, it's shrinking. It has less--less
meaning."
The Investigator's smile was patronizing. "You say they were always
questing--of course they were. Blindly, inefficiently, between their
wars. But who benefited, TRH-247? All men? No. A few favored ones.
And what were they really searching for on their new horizons?"
He thundered the question. "What those favored few had! What is
now possible for all of us! Man's real goal, TRH-247, always known
but never really understood--freedom! Freedom from the burdens of
indebtedness and the necessity to work! Freedom for total leisure
and recreation! The freedom which the system of the tax debt and the
structure of the Organization has brought within the reach of all
men--Freeman status!"
Breathless, the Investigator paused. Hendley felt an urge to protest
further, but he was not sure of his ground. He wanted to say that
efficiency should not be the only yardstick of achievement. He felt
that there might be more to human endeavor than the pursuit of
pleasure. He would have deplored the shriveling of a commodity which
had no place in the Organization's impersonal, automated world--man's
curiosity. But he was confused and uncertain. His growing confusion, in
fact, seemed greater than could be accounted for by the Investigator's
argument. Hendley had to make an effort to focus his gaze on the older
man's face.
The Investigator resumed in a calmer tone. "I realize it's hard to
assimilate all of this at once," he said, "and to see it in all its
beauty and truth. Emotional reactions often resist reason. But you will
be convinced, TRH-247. The first step has been made. Because you've
told me the reasons behind your confusion, I think I can now help you.
You believe the Organization doesn't know and understand you. You're
wrong. The Organization exists for the individual--it has no other
purpose. It is _your_ Organization, TRH-247! It doesn't seek to punish
or hold you back, only to help you reach your goal. The Merger is no
more than another giant step in that direction. If you could understand
that, you'd realize how foolish you've been."
Hendley stared at him. Where was all this leading? He didn't see what
the historical discussion--or indeed the whole interrogation--had
solved other than the Investigator's own immediate problem. _He_ at
least had found the answer he wanted--a pattern into which Hendley's
rebellion would neatly fit--for which there would be a specific,
predictable number of solutions already worked out by the morale
computer. Did the Investigators gain special tax debt credits for
solving a difficult case? Probably not. In the Architectural Center
there were debits for failure but no extra credits for success.
Success was simply expected. But when you were a 1-Dayman like the
Investigator, the avoidance of any debits would become enormously
important.
How simply the system worked! But it had made the Investigator too
anxious to discover an unusual case for his record. And too eager to
find an orthodox interpretation.
"I'm going to make a recommendation in your case, TRH-247," the big
man said gravely. "You understand, it is only a recommendation, but I
believe it will be accepted. Because of the far-reaching implications
of the Merger, and its manifest importance for all mankind, the
Organization is prepared to deal very generously with emotional
disturbances which have occurred as a result."
"I see," Hendley said, not understanding at all. Why was he finding it
so difficult to concentrate?
"Now," the Investigator said, with the air of a parent about to produce
an unexpected tidbit. "That newsview you went to see this afternoon--it
was about a Freeman Camp, wasn't it?"
"Well--yes," Hendley said, puzzled by the abrupt change of subject.
"You've always wished that you could see inside a Freeman Camp, haven't
you? Don't be embarrassed. It's a natural wish."
"I guess everyone would like to."
"It's quite impossible for that universal wish to be granted,
of course. Privacy is one of freedom's obvious privileges," the
Investigator said. "And the unrest that would result among those still
far removed from Freeman status, if they were to see all they were
denied, would be detrimental to general morale. That's a risk I'm
taking in your case, TRH-247," he added. "But I think it's justified."
Hendley wondered what the man was leading up to. The smug air of
benevolence was compounded by an evident relish for the secret about to
be revealed. Or was it a secret? Hendley's heart began to beat rapidly
as a glimmer of understanding came. The possibility so overwhelmed him
that he felt faintly dizzy.
"In cases like yours," the Investigator said, "where there is clear
indication of perplexity created by sincere doubts and understandable
confusion, there is a precedent for the recommendation I'm going to
make." He paused with deliberate drama. "You probably didn't know this,
but there are circumstances in which visitors are allowed in Freeman
Camps."
"No," Hendley said, his heart hammering now, "I didn't know."
Was this what he wanted? Had the incident with ABC-331, the adventure
under the sun, been merely a substitute--a prelude?
"There will be a penalty, of course, for your failure to report for
work. That cannot be erased. But I think I can promise you it won't
be too severe. And I think you'll feel that the price is well worth
paying."
"A--a Freeman Camp?" Hendley stammered.
The Investigator rose. His towering figure seemed to fill the room with
an overpowering presence of Authority. _This_ was the personification
of the Organization--huge, benevolent, kindly, all-knowing,
all-powerful. "You will be one of the few fortunate ones, TRH-247,"
the gray-haired man said triumphantly. "You will see what freedom
really means. You will know the goal for which you work--to which we
all aspire. You will see it with your own eyes--what even I have never
seen! You will visit a Freeman Camp!"
The room began to swim around Hendley, and the immense figure blurred
into a great gray mass bending over him. He grasped for the top of the
desk but his fingers slipped on the smooth surface and he knew that
he was falling, and as he fell the gates in a great wall opened for
him and he toppled through. He felt a wild surge of exhilaration, but
then he was spinning through a dazzling whiteness that was like the
naked sun, and at the end of the white tunnel a brisk, tight-lipped,
white-robed nurse moved toward him with a giant needle. A sense of
outrage engulfed him. He cried out: "I've been drugged!"
Then he was shooting toward a tiny pinpoint of darkness at the end of
the white tunnel. He threaded the black hole neatly with his body and
emerged into total darkness....
* * * * *
"You will answer my questions as directly as possible," the
Investigator said. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes."
"Now then--tell me what you think of the Merger."
He groped for words. It was terribly important to answer the questioner
truthfully. The need to talk was irresistible. His mind was like a dam
whose floodgates were slowly opening. A torrent of words surged toward
the widening gap, spilling through one by one, then with gathering
force and relentless pressure, gushing out, a cascade of words so
wonderful to speak, so compelling....
The eruption of words slowed and at last was still.
"You had never seen this woman before then?" the Investigator asked.
Such a calm voice, so marvelously soothing!
"No."
"Yet you were willing to risk everything to take her outside?"
"It was beautiful out there. I--I found something. It was
like--freedom."
"Ah!" The quiet voice breathed satisfaction.
"We gave ourselves so completely. I never felt so complete, so--so
free!"
"You want freedom very much, don't you?"
"Yes. I--I think so."
"This woman--you kept calling her Ann. What is her real name? Do you
remember it?"
A struggle was taking place deep in the recesses of Hendley's being. He
wanted to speak, to answer, but something was straining to contain the
words. Her name--her number....
"What was her real name?"
"It was"--the word burst out--"Ann!"
"Ann?" The Investigator frowned. "That's all she told you?"
"Yes." The struggle was renewed. Inwardly Hendley writhed. He wanted
to speak truthfully, to murmur the complete name: ABC-331. It beat
against his skull, waiting only for the question to be repeated. If
the Investigator would only ask once more he could speak and end this
terrible pressure.
"Hmmm. Clever of her," the Investigator said. "It will be difficult to
trace her without the complete name. But of course she knew that. Some
of them are very cunning."
He fell silent. Hendley waited, yearning for the question to be asked
again, but it never came. The feeling of compelling eagerness to speak
began to wane, as if the deprivation of that one need to answer had
weakened the entire structure of desire. The compulsion began to break
up, to weaken, to dissolve into less forceful fragments of need....
* * * * *
"Hypno-serum," Hendley said bitterly.
"Naturally," the Investigator said, flashing his tolerant smile.
"Why did you go through with the rest of it?" Hendley demanded. "Why
bother with direct questioning when you were going to get all the
answers anyway?"
"It was necessary to know what you would tell us voluntarily," the
gray-haired man said. "And then to corroborate or disprove your
statements by comparing them to your answers under hypno-questioning."
Hendley's stony expression concealed a sense of wonder. He had heard of
cases in which individuals were able partially or completely to resist
the truth drug for limited periods. He marveled at the struggle of
will he had endured, and at the lucky chance which had enabled him to
give Ann's archaic first name instead of the complete number. But his
feeling of relief was diluted by a lingering disappointment.
"Was it necessary to make that promise of a visit to a Freeman Camp
under the circumstances?" he said a little caustically. "What did you
gain by that device?"
"Device?" The Investigator showed surprise. "But that is still
my recommendation." He beamed at Hendley's astonishment. "The
hypno-questioning confirmed the genuine sincerity of your ideological
protest and verified my diagnosis completely. Oh, there is the woman,
of course, but she is merely symptomatic. These women prey on confusion
and uncertainty, on the need for a love-object--or, as you so aptly
suggested, TRH-247, a freedom-object. Your rebellion, as you call it,
is motivated by a true desire for freedom. It merely needs focus and
understanding to be directed toward intelligent channels. Your case
will go to the morale computer for review in the morning, but I think I
can assure you...."
The rest of his words were lost in the roaring which filled Hendley's
ears. He sat abruptly on the slab couch across from the Investigator's
desk, his legs trembling. The extreme reaction, coming immediately
after his bout with the truth serum, left him feeling weak and giddy,
his thoughts churning confusedly, his emotions a stew of incredulity,
relief, and elation.
It was some moments before he thought again of Ann. His elation dimmed.
Now there would be more delay--he didn't know how long--before he could
begin to search for her.
Or was the Investigator right? Was she no more than an objectivization
of a deeper hunger? Would he, after knowing the reality of freedom,
still feel the same way about her--still want her, regardless of the
cost?
From his low couch TRH-247 stared up at the graying father-image
in the high swivel chair, who returned his gaze with sympathetic
understanding, and he felt a helpless doubt....
5
"I envy you," the Morale Investigator said.
The copter landing station was a huge circle cut into the earth to
a depth of two levels, but open to the sky. The field was suitable
only for copters, but, in accordance with the truce made a century
before between East and West, these harmless planes were the only air
vehicles in existence. After the holocaust of atomic war, there had
been no resistance to the banning of dangerous aircraft. In weather
so inclement that the copters were grounded, massive plastic panels
closed over the entire station, sealing it tightly at surface level.
But on this day, midmorning of Hendley's second day in the custody
of the Morale Investigating Department, the sun shone brightly and
was reflected with glaring brilliance from the smooth surface of the
landing field.
The field's perimeter was completely enclosed. Hendley stood in a
boarding area with the Investigator looking out at the field through
thick plastic windows. The circle of the open roof line cupped a patch
of blue sky. Once in the copter he would see nothing until he arrived
at the Freeman Camp. The pilotless, instrument-guided planes had no
windows.
"This is your ship now," the Investigator said.
One of the copters glided close to the boarding area where Hendley
waited. It hovered a few feet above the ground, supported on columns of
air. As an enclosed boarding ramp swung out to meet the ship, a panel
in its side slid open to receive the ramp.
"You have your visitor's card?" the Investigator asked.
Hendley nodded, but he fished automatically in his pocket for perhaps
the twentieth time to check the card. It bore an impression of his own
identity disc. Its authorization was for twenty-four hours from time of
arrival at Freeman Camp No. 17. Idly Hendley wondered how many camps
there were, and how many Freemen enjoyed the pleasures of each.
"I may not see you again," the Investigator was saying. "Other
assignments are waiting for me, but you can be sure I'll check on your
progress reports. Enjoy your freedom, TRH-247. Experience it! For one
day you will know pure pleasure!"
"Pleasure Is Pure," Hendley murmured, echoing one of the familiar
Freeman slogans. "Freedom Is All."
"Open your heart to it," the Investigator urged him warmly. "I know
you'll come back a dedicated man."
Before the big man's enthusiasm Hendley felt a confusion of emotions.
The Investigator so obviously believed in what he was doing. It seemed
to Hendley that he should at this moment voice some grateful phrase,
give some evidence of excitement felt and eagerness shared. But the
words were blocked by the ambivalence of his reaction, as if his
instinct warned him that the freedom he was shortly to discover was
itself some kind of trap, like an exotic plant whose beauty concealed a
deadly poison.
"I guess it's time," he said. "They're signaling for passengers to
board." And then, hesitantly, "It's all happened so quickly--"
"There's no need to say it." The Investigator smiled. His huge hand
swallowed Hendley's shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. "Your
rehabilitation will be all the satisfaction I need."
The phrases rolled easily from his lips. Too easily, Hendley thought
uncomfortably, as if the words composed a slogan learned, memorized,
converted into an act of faith by repetition. Even the reassuring hand
was a practiced gesture. Category: Friendship. Purpose: To Instill
Confidence. Method: Place Hand On Shoulder....
The door to the boarding ramp stood open. A metallic voice spoke over
an intercom. "Last call for Flight Three-four-seven. Boarding now.
Repeat. Last call for...."
"Good luck!" the Investigator said.
Then Hendley was stumbling down the ramp, turning once to wave
awkwardly.
* * * * *
There was no sensation of motion beyond a vibration so faint that
it could almost be put down to imagination. Yet the knowledge that
the copter was in flight gave Hendley, sitting in the blind-walled
passenger cabin, a strange feeling of being helplessly adrift. Deprived
of the sight of land below, he had no way of knowing whether the ship
rose or fell, moved forward or backward, and no point of reference
by which to judge its speed. He might have been in a runaway rocket,
plunging out of control through space, like those legendary vehicles of
an earlier world a century dead.
After a while he recognized the sensation of being watched. Eyes probed
like feelers at the back of his neck. When he glanced around, the
nearest passenger, a man seated across the center aisle and one row
behind, quickly averted his gaze. Only then did Hendley realize that he
was sitting apart from the other passengers, who were tightly grouped
to the front and rear, as if they had consciously avoided the seats
close to him. A woman several rows ahead masked her interest guiltily,
pretending to stare over Hendley's head--fascinated by the empty
baggage rack.
Puzzled, Hendley frowned. He felt self-conscious enough in this strange
uniform....
Understanding came. Of course! The other passengers wore blue, yellow,
in two instances beige. His was the only white coverall. The curiosity,
the averted and envious eyes, the careful avoidance of adjoining seats
were suddenly explained. Freemen were never seen in the city--as far
as Hendley knew they never left the Freeman Camps. The fact had never
before struck him as unusual. Chances were that none of his fellow
passengers had ever seen a white uniform before except on a viewscreen.
And it was extremely doubtful that any of them would recognize the
meaning of the red sleeve emblem--the only mark, Hendley had been told,
distinguishing his coverall from that of a permanent Freeman.
He settled back in his seat, half-amused, aware of a peculiar sense of
pleasure, of--what was it?--superiority. If only they knew he was to be
free for only twenty-four hours! But they would undoubtedly envy him
still. How many had the chance to know what freedom was really like?...
He gave himself up to the feeling of being adrift, carried helplessly
along. For the first time since his rebellion began he had time to
think. On that first day too much had happened too fast. Even at
the Morale Center he'd had no time for the luxury of collecting
his thoughts. It had been close to morning when the Investigator's
astonishing pronouncement ended his questioning. Hendley had had no
rest for twenty-four hours. Exhausted, he had slept through most of
the day. Shortly after waking he learned that the morale computer had
approved his visit to the Freeman Camp. When he expressed a desire to
return to his room to prepare for the trip, the Investigator demurred
politely. "That won't be necessary," he said.
"But I'll need a fresh uniform, at least--"
"Not at all. Whatever you need will be supplied. And in any event,
you'll wear white...."
The Investigator had explained. No one was allowed to visit a Freeman
Camp in other than the prescribed white coverall. Any other color
would attract too much attention, even hostility. The precious
right of freedom was an exclusive privilege. Moreover, to move
freely--the Investigator chose the word with obvious care--to know
what it was like to live as a Freeman, it was essential that Hendley
should pass unnoticed. The red sleeve emblem would identify him to
official personnel as a visitor, but to most Freemen it would have
no significance. Hendley would go into the camp empty-handed as any
permanent Freeman would. Even his watch would be left behind. There
were no clocks in the land of the free.
"Those of us who work are shackled to the clock," the Investigator
said. "The day, the hour, the minute measure our distance from freedom.
To be free is to be liberated from the need to recognize time...."
So Hendley had been unable to leave the Morale Center. The manner of
refusal was so gentle, so persuasive, so reasonable that not until he
was alone that night did he think of his custody in the Center as a
form of imprisonment. Even then, with his morning departure imminent,
he was unable to relax or to analyze what was happening to him and what
it meant.
Now, sitting by himself in the cabin of the copter, he tried to sort
out his reflections. They refused to be channeled. Bits and pieces of
the previous two days skittered into and out of his consciousness.
From the disordered montage one face kept emerging: Ann's. He tried to
capture it, to hold it before his mind's eye. It danced from light to
shadow, changed, slipped elusively away from him. What was wrong? The
brief hours with her under the open sky had made him feel more vividly
alive than all the experience of his lifetime. Her disappearance could
not change that. Her inexplicable behavior couldn't change it. He
would find her again--he _had_ to find her. But now he was unable even
to recapture her image. It faded as he reached for it. The spirit of
their adventure--its warm intimacy, its sense of escape, its essential
_newness_--was already dimming. Why? Hendley couldn't accept the
Investigator's view of her. _He_ hadn't held Ann in his arms. _He_
hadn't felt her tremble. _He_ hadn't seen the mingled joy and pain in
her eyes.
Pain, Hendley thought. Why pain?
"Mind if I sit here?"
The strange voice dissolved Hendley's confused reverie. He glanced at
a beige uniform clothing a stout figure. His gaze rose to include a
fleshy smile and small, bright, eager eyes.
"No, of course not," he said.
"I didn't know--never met a Freeman before. Not in uniform, I mean."
The seat next to Hendley groaned and shifted to accommodate the balloon
of flesh. "Mind you, I've known some who've become free. I'm a 1-Dayman
myself, as you can see," he went on. "I'm not so far from freedom.
Plenty of those in my line--I'm in Distribution, recreation equipment
is my specialty--have paid off the tax debt and gone over."
Hendley merely nodded, awash in the high tide of words.
"You're young," the fat man said accusingly. "That's what gets me. You
must have had it easy from the start."
"I wouldn't say that."
"You can't kid me. Nobody gets over the hump that quick unless he's got
a head start on the rest of us. Family, I'll bet. That's usually the
answer."
Hendley was tempted to reveal his real status, in spite of the
Investigator's instructions about concealing his visiting privilege.
But the fat man's belligerence checked the urge to explain and defend
himself. Let the man think what he wanted.
"Now I'm one who'd really appreciate freedom," the fat man declared.
"I've had to _work_ my way up. Started as a 4-Dayman. Yeah, it's true.
That surprises you, don't it? You wanta know how I've done it? _Work_,
that's how! No time off, no vacations, no extracurricular recreation.
Sure I distribute game equipment, but I don't get to use much of it,
except in prescribed recreation hours. Look at me! You think I eat a
lot, I bet. Everyone thinks so. Well, half rations is all I eat--to
save the credits! It's glands, that's why I'm heavy like this. You
think it's been easy?" he demanded angrily. "Well, it ain't! It's been
all work for me--I didn't have it handed to me on a tray!"
The swiftly generated violence of the attack left Hendley speechless
with surprise. Then the irony of the situation struck him so forcibly
that he started to laugh.
"What's so funny?" The fat man's face turned faintly purple with rage.
Above the bulging cheeks veins crawled across his temples like swollen
worms. "Sure, you can laugh! You never had to work for yours!"
"You don't understand!" Hendley protested. "I'm not laughing at you.
It's just...." He shook his head helplessly.
"I'll bet they're all like that!" another voice cut in. It belonged
to the woman near the front of the cabin. She had risen to confront
Hendley, her long face pinched tight with hostility. "Making fun of the
rest of us!"
A third passenger intruded. "Fair's fair," he said. He was a 3-Dayman,
like Hendley himself, attired in the familiar blue coverall. "It isn't
his fault he's young. Somebody had to work to pay off his tax debt.
That's the system, and it works the same for all of us."
"_He_ didn't do the work!" the fat man retorted. "Look at him! Gloating
over us. I'm sixty-two years old--I've worked all my life. Never let
myself have anything I didn't need. And it'll be two, maybe three years
before I make it. How much time will I have left?" His red face thrust
close to Hendley's. "But why should you care? You've forgotten what it
is to work!"
"They have all those women!" the pinched-faced woman up front cried
shrilly. "I've seen them on the viewer. That's all they ever think
about!"
Hendley's laughter had long since evaporated. He could only gape in
amazement at the swollen anger of the fat man, the shrill resentment of
the woman. He wondered how widespread was this envy of the free. Had he
been so absorbed in his own unrest that he hadn't looked around him?
And what soothing platitudes would the computers in the Morale Center
recommend to patch this crack in the Organization's perfect structure?
Had he felt this same resentment himself? The question pulled Hendley
erect in his seat. Was his rebellion rooted in a common envy? The
possibility made him uneasy with himself. It offered an explanation for
the way in which the idyllic moments with ABC-331, which had seemed so
intensely important, should so quickly have receded in his memory.
He had been offered a chance to glimpse the true freedom, the goal of
all. Did everything fade into unimportance before that dream? Had his
protest, disguised as the yearning for individuality, been no more than
a subtler face of envy?
"Don't have much to say for yourself, do you?" the fat distributor in
the beige uniform muttered.
Hendley turned to meet the bitter little eyes with a level gaze. In
sudden anger he forgot the Investigator's insistence on silence. "I
started as a 2-Dayman myself," he said flatly. "I'm not even a--"
The copter dipped abruptly. Hendley broke off. A faint pull in his
stomach told him the ship was descending. That brief tug released a
tingle of excitement through his body.
A stewardess appeared from the lounge, wearing a tight-fitting green
uniform and a vacuous smile. She advanced straight to Hendley's seat.
"You will go forward now, sir," she said, her tone a little too eager,
too flatteringly awed. "The private debarking platform is through that
door."
Hendley rose. Glancing down once more at the fat passenger who had been
so angered by the white uniform, he thought: It's just as well you
don't know the truth. Envy grew vigorously enough without nourishment,
as a weed forced its way through the smallest crack in solid pavement.
He turned abruptly and made his way along the aisle to the narrow door
at the front of the cabin.
* * * * *
Just before the outer panel swung open Hendley donned the sunglasses he
had been issued. Even this protection did not keep his eyes from aching
as the full glare of sunlight struck them. He stepped from the copter
onto a concrete apron. The exit panel instantly closed behind him, and
a moment later the copter rose swiftly and quietly, blasting Hendley
with a column of hot air.
He shut his eyes against the sun's glare and felt its weight for a
long moment after the copter's funnel of air had spun away. When he
opened his eyes again, squinting, he surveyed a desolate, empty world.
A broad expanse of concrete--cracked, broken, uneven, erratically
patched--stretched to the fringe of a brown desert, which rose
in smooth shallow steps to a ring of brown mountains hazy in the
distance. In all that wilderness there was neither sight nor sound
of life--nothing but the deteriorating white concrete of the landing
strip, the brown earth, the aching sunlight.
Panic closed on him. He whirled. The sight of the familiar massive wall
of a Freeman Camp brought sharp relief. The landing was outside the
wall, of course, to prevent any unauthorized glimpse of what lay beyond
that barrier. But one thing about the wall was puzzling. Like the
concrete landing field, it was visibly crumbling and neglected.
The broad sweep of the wall was broken by a single gate. A lone
attendant in a beige uniform sat in a small glass-walled cubicle beside
the narrow gate. He glanced up without interest as Hendley approached.
"I'm a visitor," Hendley said. "This is my card."
The attendant gave the card a cursory inspection, consulted a list and
nodded perfunctorily. As he made a notation on the list, Hendley was
moved to break the heavy silence.
"Your landing strip isn't in very good shape, is it?" he commented
lightly.
"People don't complain," the attendant said laconically. "It's what's
inside that counts." Without looking up he gestured toward the windowed
slot indicating the presence of a computer set into the wall next to
the gate. "Check in," he said. "Then report to Administration."
Hendley lifted his wrist to present his identity disc to the machine.
It responded with a low hum, followed by a click. The gate swung open.
Hendley walked through.
Before him was an expanse of green lawn, extending in a smooth,
unbroken carpet a hundred feet wide to a grove of trees, shadowy and
inviting in the sunlight.
The gate clicked shut behind him.
6
A sign, black letters on a white board, pointed the way to
ADMINISTRATION, along a narrow footpath which plunged into the
belt of trees. As Hendley entered the shadowed grove he felt a renewal
of excitement. The leaves above whispered musically in the wind, an
unfamiliar rushing sound which was strangely pleasant. An intricate
lacework of light and shadow played over the leaves and branches and
trunks of trees. As he broke out of the woods onto another stretch of
green lawn, a bird darted from a high branch above his head, swooped in
a spectacular arc, incredibly light and swift and beautiful, and dove
out of sight into another leafy cavern.
It was the first live bird Hendley had ever seen. He stared up in
wonder at the foliage where the bird had disappeared, wishing that it
would dart out again. At last he turned away. His breath caught.
The entire Freeman Camp seemed to be spread out before him. The natural
screen of trees formed a line repeating the great circle of the
outside wall. Within that frame of woods was a rolling green carpet
dotted here and there with colorful play areas, pools of water winking
in the sunlight, outdoor cafes and bars. Beyond this parklike setting
were the residential areas--row upon row of identical two-storied
buildings, each lavishly windowed--every room, Hendley marveled, must
be open to the light! In a narrower circle beyond these residential
buildings were structures of varied shapes and sizes and colors, shops
and stores and theaters and game centers of every kind. Crowning the
top of a hill almost in the center of the camp, overlooking another
immense park lush with trees and flowers and more game areas, was a
huge yellow building, a cement mushroom turned light and graceful by
inset arches of glass.
The camp was a world all bright and glittering, golden in the sunlight,
endlessly varied and enchanting.
Hendley stood rooted, his senses alive to all the strange new sounds
and smells, for a long time. Then with quickening anticipation he
hurried along the path toward a concentration of squat, windowless
buildings immediately before him. He gained admittance through a
right-angled corridor which cut off any view of the outside. Here he
found himself in familiar surroundings, the sealed-in, air-conditioned
world of the worker in the Organization. The check-in procedure was a
model of the Organization's pattern of streamlined, impersonal, highly
automated efficiency. Hendley was briskly ushered through a receiving
line, identified, briefed on the geography of the camp, given a key to
his assigned room, a map, and a schedule of the day's "entertainments."
No one expressed surprise or special interest in his visiting status.
At the end of the line an official told him, "You will report here an
hour before your departure time, which is at twelve noon tomorrow."
Hendley smiled at an unexpected thought. "How will I know what time it
is?"