Early the next morning, Barrent began his exploration. His technique was
simple. He rang doorbells and asked questions. He warned all his
subjects that his real questions might be interspersed with tricks or
nonsense questions, whose purpose was to test the general awareness
level. In that way, Barrent found he could ask anything at all about
Earth, could explore controversial or even nonexistent areas, and do so
without revealing his own ignorance.
There was still the danger that some official would ask for his
credentials, or that the police would mysteriously spring up when least
expected. But he had to take those risks. Starting at the beginning of
Orange Esplanade, Barrent worked his way northward, calling at each
house as he went. His results were uneven, as a selective sampling of
his work shows:
* * * * *
(_Citizen A. L. Gotthreid, age 55, occupation home-tender. A strong,
erect woman, imperious but polite, with a no-nonsense air about her._)
"You want to ask me about class and status? Is that it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You Opinioners are _always_ asking about class and status. One would
think you'd know all about it by now. But very well. Today, since
everyone is equal, there is only one class. The _middle_ class. The only
question then is--to what portion of the middle class does one belong?
High, low, or middle?"
"And how is that determined?"
"Why, by all sorts of things. The way a person speaks, eats, dresses,
the way he acts in public. His manners. His clothing. You can always
tell your upper middle class man by his clothes. It's quite
unmistakable."
"I see. And the lower middle classes?"
"Well, for one thing they lack creative energy. They wear ready-made
clothing, for example, without taking the trouble to improve upon it.
The same goes for their homes. Mere uninspired adornment won't do, let
me add. That's simply the mark of the _nouveau_ upper middle class. One
doesn't receive such persons in the home."
"Thank you, Citizen Gotthreid. And where would you classify yourself
statuswise?"
(With the very faintest hesitation). "Oh, I've never thought much about
it--upper middle, I suppose."
* * * * *
(_Citizen Dreister, age 43, occupation shoe vendor. A slender, mild man,
young-looking for his years._)
"Yes, sir. Myra and I have three children of school age. All boys."
"Could you give me some idea what their education consists of?"
"They learn how to read and write, and how to become good citizens.
They're already starting to learn their trades. The oldest is going into
the family business--shoes. The other two are taking apprenticeship
courses in groceries and retail marketing. That's my wife's family's
business. They also learn how to retain status, and how to utilize
standard techniques for moving upward. That's about what goes on in the
open classes."
"Are there other school classes which are not open?"
"Well, naturally there are the closed classes. Every child attends
them."
"And what do they learn in the closed classes?"
"I don't know. They're closed, as I said."
"Don't the children ever speak about those classes?"
"No. They talk about everything under the sun, but not about that."
"Haven't you any idea what goes on in the closed classes?"
"Sorry, I don't. At a guess--and it's only a guess, mind you--I'd say
it's probably something religious. But you'd have to ask a teacher for
that."
"Thank you, sir. And how do you classify yourself statuswise?"
"Middle middle class. Not much doubt about that."
* * * * *
(_Citizen Maryjane Morgan, age 51, occupation school-teacher. A tall,
bony woman._)
"Yes, sir, I think that just about sums up our curriculum at the Little
Beige Schoolhouse."
"Except for the closed classes."
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"The closed classes. You haven't discussed those."
"I'm afraid I can't."
"Why not, Citizen Morgan?"
"Is this a trick question? Everyone knows that teachers aren't allowed
in the closed classes."
"Who _is_ allowed in?"
"The children, of course."
"But who teaches them?"
"The government is in charge of that."
"Of course. But who, specifically, does the teaching in the closed
classes?"
"I have no idea, sir. It's none of my business. The closed classes are
an ancient and respected institution. What goes on in them is quite
possibly of a religious nature. But that's only a guess. Whatever it is,
it's none of my business. Nor is it yours, young man, Opinioner or not."
"Thank you, Citizen Morgan."
* * * * *
(_Citizen Edgar Nief, age 107, occupation retired officer. A tall,
stooped man with cane, icy blue eyes undimmed by age._)
"A little louder, please. What was that question again?"
"About the armed forces. Specifically I asked--"
"I remember now. Yes, young man, I was a colonel in the Twenty-first
North American Spaceborne Commando, which was a regular unit of the
Earth Defense Corps."
"And did you retire from the service?"
"No, the service retired from me."
"I beg pardon, sir?"
"You heard me correctly, young man. It happened just sixty-three years
ago. The Earth Armed Forces were demobilized, except for the police
whom I cannot count. But all regular units were demobilized."
"Why was that done, sir?"
"There wasn't anyone to fight. Wasn't even anyone to guard against, or
so I was told. Damned foolish business, I say."
"Why, sir?"
"Because an old soldier knows that you can never tell when an enemy
might spring up. It could happen now. And then where would we be?"
"Couldn't the armies be formed again?"
"Certainly. But the present generation has no concept of serving under
arms. There are no leaders left, outside of a few useless old fools like
me. It would take years for an effective force, effectively led, to be
formed."
"And in the meantime, Earth is completely open to invasion from the
outside?"
"Yes, except for the police units. And I seriously doubt their
reliability under fire."
"Could you tell me about the police?"
"There is nothing I know about them. I have never bothered my head about
non-military matters."
"But it is conceivable that the police have now taken over the functions
of the army, isn't it? That the police constitute a sizable and
disciplined paramilitary force?"
"It is possible, sir. Anything is possible."
* * * * *
(_Citizen Moertin Honners, age 31, occupation verbalizer. A slim,
languid man with an earnest, boyish face and smooth, corn-blond hair._)
"You are a verbalizer, Citizen Honners?"
"I am, sir. Though perhaps 'author' would be a better word, if you don't
mind."
"Of course. Citizen Honners, are you presently engaged in writing for
any of the periodicals I see on the dissemination stands?"
"Certainly not! These are written by incompetent hacks for the dubious
delectation of the lower middle class. The stories, in case you didn't
know, are taken line by line from the works of various popular writers
of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The people who do the work
merely substitute adjectives and adverbs. Occasionally, I'm told, a more
daring hack will substitute a verb, or even a noun. But that is rare.
The editors of such periodicals frown upon sweeping innovations."
"And you are not engaged in such work?"
"Absolutely not! My work is noncommercial. I am a Creative Conrad
Specialist."
"Would you mind telling me what that means, Citizen Honners?"
"I'd be happy to. My own particular field of endeavor lies in
re-creating the works of Joseph Conrad, an author who lived in the
pre-atomic era."
"How do you go about re-creating those works, sir?"
"Well, at present I am engaged in my fifth re-creation of _Lord Jim_. To
do it, I steep myself as thoroughly as possible in the original work.
Then I set about rewriting it as Conrad would have written it if he had
lived today. It is a labor which calls for extreme diligence, and for
the utmost in artistic integrity. A single slip could mar the
re-creation. As you can see, it calls for a preliminary mastery of
Conrad's vocabulary, themes, plots, characters, mood, approach, and so
on. All this goes in, and yet the book cannot be a slavish _repeat_. It
must have something new to say, just as Conrad would have said it."
"And have you succeeded?"
"The critics have been generous, and my publisher gives me every
encouragement."
"When you have finished your fifth re-creation of _Lord Jim_, what do
you plan to do?"
"First I shall take a long rest. Then I shall re-create one of Conrad's
minor works. _The Planter of Malata_, perhaps."
"I see. Is re-creation the rule in all the arts?"
"It is the goal of the true aspiring artist, no matter what medium he
has chosen to work in. Art is a cruel mistress, I fear."
* * * * *
(_Citizen Willis Ouerka, age 8, occupation student. A cheerful,
black-haired, sun-tanned boy._)
"I'm sorry, Mr. Opinioner, my parents aren't home right now."
"That's perfectly all right, Willis. Do you mind if I ask you a question
or two?"
"I don't mind. What's that you got under your jacket, Mister? It
bulges."
"I'll ask the questions, Willis, if you don't mind.... Now, do you like
school?"
"It's all right."
"What courses do you take?"
"Well, there's reading and writing and status appreciation, and courses
in art, music, architecture, literature, ballet, and theater. The usual
stuff."
"I see. That's in the open classes?"
"Sure."
"Do you also attend a closed class?"
"Sure I do. Every day."
"Do you mind talking about it?"
"I don't mind. Is that bulge a gun? I know what guns are. Some of the
big boys were passing around pictures at lunchtime a couple days ago and
I peeked. Is it a gun?"
"No. My suit doesn't fit very well, that's all. Now then. Would you mind
telling me what you do in the closed class?"
"I don't mind."
"What happens, then?"
"I don't remember."
"Come now, Willis."
"Really, Mr. Opinioner. We all go into this classroom, and we come out
two hours later for recess. But that's all. I can't remember anything
else. I've talked with the other kids. They can't remember either."
"Strange...."
"No, sir. If we were supposed to remember, it wouldn't be _closed_."
"Perhaps so. Do you remember what the room looks like, or who your
teacher is for the closed class?"
"No, sir. I really don't remember anything at all about it."
"Thank you. Willis."
* * * * *
(_Citizen Cuchulain Dent, age 37, occupation inventor. A prematurely
bald man with ironic, heavy-lidded eyes._)
"Yep, that's right. I'm an inventor specializing in games. I brought
out _Triangulate--Or Else!_ last year. It's been pretty popular. Have
you seen it?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Sort of a cute game. It's a simulated lost-in-space thing. The players
are given incomplete data for their miniature computers, additional
information as they win it. Space hazards for penalties. Lots of
flashing lights and stuff like that. Very big seller."
"Do you invent anything else, Citizen Dent?"
"When I was a kid, I worked up an improved seeder harvester. Designed to
be approximately three times as efficient as the present models. And
would you believe it, I really thought I had a chance of selling it."
"Did you sell it?"
"Of course not. At that time I didn't realize that the patent office was
closed permanently except for the games section."
"Were you angry about that?"
"A little angry at the time. But I soon realized that the models we have
are plenty good enough. There's no need for more efficient or more
ingenious inventions. Folks today are satisfied with what they've got.
Besides, new inventions would be of no service to mankind. Earth's birth
and death rate are stable, and there's enough for everyone. To produce a
new invention, you'd have to retool an entire factory. That would be
almost impossible, since all the factories today are automatic and
self-repairing. That's why there's a moratorium on invention, except in
the novelty game field."
"How do you feel about it?"
"What's there to feel? That's how things are."
"Would you like to have things different?"
"Maybe. But being an inventor, I'm classified as a potentially unstable
character anyhow."
* * * * *
(_Citizen Barn Threnten, age 41, occupation atomics engineer
specializing in spacecraft design. A nervous, intelligent-looking man
with sad brown eyes._)
"You want to know what I do in my job? I'm sorry you asked that,
Citizen, because I don't do a thing except walk around the factory.
Union rules require one stand-by human for every robot or robotized
operation. That's what I do. I just stand by."
"You sound dissatisfied, Citizen Threnten."
"I am. I wanted to be an atomics engineer. I trained for it. Then when I
graduated, I found out my knowledge was fifty years out of date. Even if
I learned what was going on now, I'd have no place to use it."
"Why not?"
"Because everything in atomics is automatized. I don't know if the
majority of the population knows that, but it's true. From raw material
to finished product, it's all completely automatic. The only human
participation in the program is quantity-control in terms of population
indexes. And even that is minimal."
"What happens if a part of an automatic factory breaks down?"
"It gets fixed by robot repair units."
"And if they break down?"
"The damned things are self-repairing. All I can do is stand by and
watch, and fill out a report. Which is a ridiculous position for a man
who considers himself an engineer."
"Why don't you turn to some other field?"
"No use. I've checked, and the rest of the engineers are in the same
position I'm in, watching automatic processes which they don't
understand. Name your field: food processing, automobile manufacture,
construction, biochem., it's all the same. Either stand-by engineers or
no engineers at all."
"This is true for spaceflight also?"
"Sure. No member of the spacepilot's union has been off Earth for close
to fifty years. They wouldn't know how to operate a ship."
"I see. All the ships are set for automatic."
"Exactly. Permanently and irrevocably automatic."
"What would happen if these ships ran into an unprecedented situation?"
"That's hard to say. The ships can't think, you know; they simply follow
pre-set programs. If the ships ran into a situation for which they were
not programmed, they'd be paralyzed, at least temporarily. I think they
have an optimum-choice selector which is supposed to take over
unstructured situations; but it's never been tried out. At best, it
would react sluggishly. At worst, it wouldn't work at all. And that
would be fine by me."
"Do you really mean that?"
"I certainly do. I'm sick of standing around watching a machine do the
same thing day after day. Most of the professional men I know feel the
same way. We want to do something. Anything. Did you know that a hundred
years ago human-piloted starships were exploring the planets of other
solar systems?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's what we should be doing now. Moving outward, exploring,
advancing. That's what we need."
"I agree. But don't you think you're saying rather dangerous things?"
"I know I am. But frankly, I just don't care any longer. Let them ship
me to Omega if they want to. I'm doing no good here."
"Then you've heard about Omega?"
"Anyone connected with starships knows about Omega. Round trips between
Omega and Earth, that's all our ships do. It's a terrible world.
Personally, I put the blame on the clergy."
"The clergy?"
"Absolutely. Those sanctimonious fools with their endless drivel about
the Church of the Spirit of Mankind Incarnate. It's enough to make a man
wish for a little evil...."
* * * * *
(_Citizen Father Boeren, age 51, occupation clergyman. A stately,
plum-shaped man wearing a saffron robe and white sandals._)
"That's right, my son, I am the abbot of the local branch of the Church
of the Spirit of Mankind Incarnate. Our church is the official and
exclusive religious expression of the government of Earth. Our religion
speaks for all the peoples of Earth. It is a composite of the best
elements of all the former religions, both major and minor, skillfully
blended into a single all-embracing faith."
"Citizen Abbot, aren't there bound to be contradictions in doctrine
among the various religions which make up your faith?"
"There _were_. But the forgers of our present Church threw out all
controversial matter. We wanted agreement, not dissension. We preserve
only certain colorful facets of those early great religions; facets with
which people can identify. There have never been any schisms in our
religion, because we are all-acceptant. One may believe anything one
wishes, as long as it preserves the holy spirit of Mankind Incarnate.
For our worship, you see, is the true worship of Man. And the spirit we
recognize is the spirit of the divine and holy Good."
"Would you define Good for me, Citizen Abbot?"
"Certainly. Good is that force within us which inspires men to acts of
conformity and subservience. The worship of Good is essentially the
worship of oneself, and therefore the only true worship. The self which
one worships is the ideal social being: the man content in his niche in
society, yet ready to creatively advance his status. Good is gentle,
since it is a true reflection of the loving and pitying universe. Good
is continually changing in its aspects, although it comes to us in the ...
You have a strange look on your face, young man."
"I'm sorry, Citizen Abbot. I believe I heard that sermon, or one very
much like it."
"It is true wherever one hears it."
"Of course. One more question, sir. Could you tell me about the
religious instruction of children?"
"That duty is performed for us by the robot-confessors."
"Yes?"
"The notion came to us from the ancient root-faith of Transcendental
Freudianism. The robot-confessor instructs children and adults alike. It
hears their problems within the social matrix. It is their constant
friend, their social mentor, their religious instructor. Being robotic,
the confessors are able to give exact and unvarying answers to any
question. This aids the great work of Conformity."
"I can see that it does. What do the human priests do?"
"They watch over the robot-confessors."
"Are these robot-confessors present in the closed classrooms?"
"I am not competent to answer that."
"They are, aren't they?"
"I truly do not know. The closed classrooms are closed to abbots as well
as other adults."
"By whose order?"
"By order of the Chief of the Secret Police."
"I see.... Thank you, Citizen Abbot Boeren."
* * * * *
(_Citizen Enyen Dravivian, age 43, occupation government employee. A
narrow-faced, slit-eyed man, old and tired beyond his years._)
"Good afternoon, sir. You say that you are employed by the government?"
"Correct."
"Is that the state or the federal government?"
"Both."
"I see. And have you been in this employ for very long?"
"Approximately eighteen years."
"Yes, sir. Would you mind telling me what, specifically, your job is?"
"Not at all. I am the Chief of the Secret Police."
"You are--I see, sir. That's very interesting. I--"
"Don't reach for your needlebeam, ex-Citizen Barrent. I can assure you,
it won't operate in the blanketed area around this house. And if you
draw it, you'll be hurt."
"How?"
"I have my own means of protection."
"How did you know my name?"
"I've known about you almost since you set foot upon Earth. We are not
entirely without resources you know. But we can discuss all that inside.
Won't you come in?"
"I think I'd rather not."
"I'm afraid you have to. Come, Barrent, I won't bite you."
"Am I under arrest?"
"Of course not. We're simply going to have a little talk. That's right,
sir, right through there. Just make yourself comfortable."