In the morning, the friendly oak tree dispensed breakfast and shaving
equipment. Barrent ate, washed and shaved, and set out for the nearest
town. He had his objectives firmly in mind. He had to establish some
sort of foolproof disguise, and he had to make contact with Earth's
underground. When this was accomplished, he had to find out as much as
he could about Earth's secret police, military dispositions, and the
like.
Group Two had worked out a procedure for accomplishing these objectives.
As Barrent came to the outskirts of a town, he hoped that the Group's
methods would work. So far, the Earth he was on had very little
resemblance to the Earth which the Group had reconstructed.
He walked down interminable streets lined with small white cottages. At
first, he thought every house looked the same. Then he realized that
each had one or two small architectural differences. But instead of
distinguishing the houses, these niggling differences simply served to
point up the monotonous similarities. There were hundreds of these
cottages, stretching as far as he could see, each of them set upon a
little plot of carefully tended grass. Their genteel sameness depressed
him. Unexpectedly he missed the ridiculous, clumsy, make-shift
individuality of Omegan buildings.
He reached a shopping center. The stores repeated the pattern set by the
houses. They were low, discreet, and very similar. Only a close
inspection of window displays revealed differences between a food store
and a sports shop. He passed a small building with a sign that read,
ROBOT CONFESSIONAL--_Open 24 hours a day._ It seemed to be some sort of
church.
The procedure set by Group Two for locating the underground on Earth was
simple and straightforward. Revolutionaries, he had been told, are found
in greatest quantity among a civilization's most depressed elements.
Poverty breeds dissatisfaction; the have-nots want to take from those
who have. Therefore, the logical place to look for subversion is in the
slums.
It was a good theory. The trouble was, Barrent couldn't find any slums.
He walked for hours, past neat stores and pleasant little homes,
playgrounds and parks, scrupulously tended farms, and then past more
houses and stores. Nothing looked much better or worse than anything
else.
By evening, he was tired and footsore. As far as he could tell, he had
discovered nothing of significance. Before he could penetrate any deeper
into the complexities of Earth, he would have to question the local
citizens. It was a dangerous step, but one which he could not avoid.
He stood near a clothing store in the gathering dusk and decided upon a
course of action. He would pose as a foreigner, a man newly arrived in
North America from Asia or Europe. In that way, he should be able to ask
questions with a measure of safety.
A man was walking toward him, a plump, ordinary-looking fellow in a
brown business tunic. Barrent stopped him. "I beg your pardon," he said.
"I'm a stranger here, just arrived from Rome."
"Really?" the man said.
"Yes. I'm afraid I don't understand things over here very well," Barrent
said, with an apologetic little laugh. "I can't seem to find any cheap
hotels. If you could direct me--"
"Citizen, do you feel all right?" the man asked, his face hardening.
"As I said, I'm a foreigner, and I'm looking--"
"Now look," the man said, "you know as well as I do that there aren't
any outlanders any more."
"There aren't?"
"Of course not. I've _been_ in Rome. It's just like here in Wilmington.
Same sort of houses and stores. No one's an outlander any more."
Barrent couldn't think of anything to say. He smiled nervously.
"Furthermore," the man said, "there are no cheap lodgings anywhere on
Earth. Why should there be? Who would stay in them?"
"Who indeed?" Barrent said. "I guess I've had a little too much to
drink."
"No one drinks any more," the man said. "I don't understand. What sort
of a game is this?"
"What sort of a game do you _think_ it is?" Barrent asked, falling back
on a technique which the Group had recommended.
The man stared at him, frowning. "I think I get it," he said. "You must
be an Opinioner."
"Mmm," Barrent said, noncommittally.
"Sure, that's it," the man said. "You're one of those citizens goes
around asking people's opinions. For surveys and that sort of thing.
Right?"
"You've made a very intelligent guess," Barrent said.
"Well, I don't suppose it was too hard. Opinioners are always walking
around trying to get people's attitudes on things. I would have spotted
you right away if you'd been wearing Opinioners' clothing." The man
started to frown again. "How come you aren't dressed like an Opinioner?"
"I just graduated," Barrent said. "Haven't had a chance to get the
clothes."
"Oh. Well, you should get the proper wear," the man said sententiously.
"How can a citizen tell your status?"
"Just a test sampling," Barrent said. "Thank you for your cooperation,
sir. Perhaps I'll have a chance to interview you again in the near
future."
"Any time," the man said. He nodded politely and walked off.
Barrent thought about it, and decided that the occupation of Opinioner
was perfect for him. It would give him the all-important right to ask
questions, to meet people, to find out how Earth lived. He would have to
be careful, of course, not to reveal his ignorance. But working with
circumspection, he should have a general knowledge of this civilization
in a few days.
First, he would have to buy Opinioners' clothing. That seemed to be
important. The trouble was, he had no money with which to pay for it.
The Group had been unable to duplicate Earth money; they couldn't even
remember what it looked like.
But they had provided him with a means of overcoming even that obstacle.
Barrent turned and went into the nearest costumer's.
The proprietor was a short man with china-blue eyes and a salesman's
ready smile. He welcomed Barrent and asked how he could be of service.
"I need Opinioners' clothing," Barrent told him. "I've just graduated."
"Of course, sir," the owner said. "And you've come to the right place
for it. Most of the smaller stores don't carry the clothing for anything
but the more ... ah ... common professions. But here at Jules
Wonderson's, we have ready-wears for all of the five hundred and twenty
major professions listed in the Civil Status Almanac. I am Jules
Wonderson."
"A pleasure," Barrent said. "Have you a ready-wear in my size?"
"I'm sure I have," Wonderson said. "Would you care for a Regular or a
Special?"
"A Regular will do nicely."
"Most new Opinioners prefer the Special," Wonderson said. "The little
extra simulated handmade touches increase the public's respect."
"In that case I'll take the Special."
"Yes, sir. Though if you could wait a day or two, we will be having in a
new fabric--a simulated Home Loom, complete with natural weaving
mistakes. For the man of status discrimination. A real prestige item."
"Perhaps I'll come back for that," Barrent said. "Right now, I need a
ready-wear."
"Of course, sir," Wonderson said, disappointed but hiding it bravely.
"If you'll wait just one little minute...."
After several fittings, Barrent found himself wearing a black business
suit with a thin edge of white piping around the lapels. To his
inexperienced eye it looked almost exactly like the other suits
Wonderson had on display for bankers, stock brokers, grocers,
accountants, and the like. But for Wonderson, who talked about the
banker's lapel and the insurance agent's drape, the differences were as
clear as the gross status-symbols of Omega. Barrent decided it was just
a question of training.
"There, sir!" Wonderson said. "A perfect fit, and a fabric guaranteed
for a lifetime. All for thirty-nine ninety-five."
"Excellent," Barrent said. "Now, about the money--"
"Yes, sir?"