by C. L. Moore
And time had stepped up its pace. Progress moves in direct ratio to technological advances. Unless, of course, those advances come so rapidly that humanity lags behind, and then there is the danger of war and chaos. But the Second Revolution had been stopped before Vankirk crossed the Mississippi on his way eastward, and thereafter the Global Unit had appeared—and enforced its laws very firmly.
Five hundred years of progress had been compressed into eight decades. The present world would have seemed quite strange to a visitor from 1950. The background and history of the new set-up could have been made clear to such an improbable visitor, by the text tapes, with their detailed charts and graphs, but—
The text tapes would have lied.
-
Senator Rufus Mitchell might have been a butcher or a politician. He belonged in an old-fashioned cartoon, with his jowled red face, his two-and-a-half chins, his swag belly, and the enormous cigar jutting from firm, skeptical lips at a sharp angle. Which merely proves that types continue indefinitely; Cruikshank had drawn Mitchells, but not as politicians; today, Rufus Mitchell was a hard-headed, clever, iconoclastic man who could smell a bomb's proximity fuse before it came too close. He hoped so, anyway. That was why he had managed to create the Commission, despite opposition of the laissez-faire bloc in the Global Unit.
"Open covenants openly arrived at," he shouted, hoping to confuse his opponent both by decibels and semantic ambiguity. But sleek, smiling Senator Quinn wasn't having any. He was an old man, with silvery white hair and a buttery voice, and now he drank his surrogate highball and lay back, watching figures move in a slow dance on the ceiling screen.
"Do you know what you're talking about, Rufus?" he murmured.
Mitchell said, "The Global Unit doesn't work behind closed doors. Why should Mar Vista General?"
"Because all the knowledge would leak out if the doors were opened," Quinn said. They were in a lounge, resting, after their selective tour of the Lower College, and Mitchell was wishing he'd had another partner instead of Quinn. The man was ready to give up now!
"I'm satisfied," Quinn remarked, after a pause. "I don't know what the devil you want, anyhow."
Mitchell lowered his voice. "You know as well as I do that Mar Vista's advice is a little more than that. We haven't turned down a recommendation from this place since the Global Unit started."
"Well? The world's running along nicely, isn't it?"
Mitchell stabbed his cigar at his fellow solon. "Who runs the planet? Global Unit—or Mar Vista?"
Quinn said, "Suppose Mar Vista runs it. Would you be willing to immure yourself in the place, under totally abnormal conditions, just so you could have the pleasure of knowing you were one of the bosses? The Franciscan friars had a smart idea. They had to give away all their worldly possessions and take a vow of poverty before they could become friars. Nobody envied them. Nobody envies the Council."
"How do we know what goes on in Mar Vista?"
"At worst it's an Arabian Nights' heaven. Or at best."
"Listen," Mitchell said, changing his approach. "I don't care what their pleasures are. I want to know what they're up to. They're running the world. Well—it's time they showed their hand. I still don't see any reason for the Central Power project."
"Well, don't look at me. I'm no electrophysicist. I gather that we'll be able to tune in on a power supply from anywhere. And unlimited power."
"Unlimited," Mitchell nodded. "But why? It's dangerous. Atomic-power has been rigidly controlled for eighty years. That's why the planet's still here. If anybody can tune in—anybody can play with neutrons. You know what that might mean."
Quinn wearily ticked off points on his fingers. "We have the enforced census. We have enforced psychological tests. We have a spy system and we have revoked the habeas corpus. Not to mention a lot of similar safeguards. The Global Unit has absolute power, and can control the life of everybody on earth, practically speaking."
"But Mar Vista General has absolute power over the Global Unit," Mitchell said triumphantly. "We've seen the Lower College, and there's nothing to see except a lot of technicians. And gadgets."
"Oh, blah."
"Sit back and drink your surrogate," Mitchell said. "When the Central Power stations are activated, anyone can tune it. But sit back and swig away. There may be another atomic war. There may be more mutants. This time they may grow up."
"They can't," Quinn said. "The smart ones are nonviable."
"Oh, blah," Mitchell plagiarized.
Quinn said, rather wearily, "You know very well that the only truly dangerous mutations are so alien they show their stigmata before maturation. Once they turn blue or sprout extra hands or tentatively try to fly, they can be spotted and destroyed. But there aren't any more mutants, and you're a scaremonger. I can't stop you from going to Mar Vista if you want. Only I don't see the reason. You've a lifetime tenure of office as senior senator."
Mitchell said, "I represent the people." He hesitated, and then, oddly, laughed. "I know. It's a cliché. But I do feel a responsibility."
"To get your picture on the news-tapes."
"I've done research on this subject. I've found some hints and clues."
"The status quo is safe," Quinn said.
"Is it? Well, here's our guide. Do you want to wait here, or—"
"I'll wait here," Quinn said, settling back comfortably with a fresh drink.
-
Here and there, at selected spots on the earth's surface, men worked at intricate tasks. The Central Power stations were metal hemispheres, smooth as glass outside, complicated as a maze within. The setting-up was in its final phase. The actual construction had not taken long, for advances in engineering had been fantastically rapid. In 1950 the job would have lasted for ten years. Now it took three months, from inception to near-completion. Delicate balance-checks and precision integration were the final factors, and that was going on now.
The Global Unit had authorized the installation of Central Power. But the suggestion, with detailed plans, had come from Mar Vista General.
All over the world the stations were spotted. A changed world. Different, far different, from the world of eighty years before.
Physically it had altered.
And, mentally, the outlook had altered, too.
-
Senator Quinn underestimated Mitchell. He saw his colleague as a big, bumbling, interfering man, and failed to realize that Mitchell inevitably got what he wanted, even when the results were only satisfaction or information. Mitchell, for all his carpet-bagging exterior, was extremely intelligent—and practical. The combination of those two abilities made him, perhaps, the one best fitted to investigate Mar Vista General.
Councilwoman Mary Gregson, however, did not underestimate the visitor. She had already seen Mitchell's psych and IQ charts, in the private files, and could not help feeling dubious about Ashworth's plan. She watched him now, a thin, dark, mild young man with a shy smile and intent eyes, as he stood beside her facing the transparent inner door.
He glanced at her. "Worried?"
"Yes."
"Can't be helped. We need you to explain the biogenetic angles to the senator. Here he comes." They turned toward the widening strip of daylight as the great metal gates slowly opened. Framed between them was Mitchell's burly figure, stooping forward a little as though he peered into the darkness that faced him.
Now the darkness lightened. Mitchell silently came forward. As the gates closed behind him, the inner door opened, and Ashworth sighed and touched the woman's hand.
"Now."
She said, in a quick whisper, "We'll be notified as soon as the stations are activated. Then—"
"Hello, senator," Ashworth said loudly, giving a half-salute. "Come in. This is Councilwoman Mary Gregson. I'm Samuel Ashworth."
Mitchell approached and shook hands. He kept his mouth tight. Ashworth said, "I don't know what you're expecting, but I think you're going to be surprised. I suppose you realize that y
ou're the first outsider ever to enter Mar Vista General."
"I know that," Mitchell said. "That's why I'm here. Are you in charge, Councilman?"
"No. This is a democratic Council. Nobody's in charge. We're appointed to show you around. Ready?"
Mitchell brought out a small black gadget from his pocket and spoke into it. "I report every quarter hour," he said, snapping the tiny visor attachment open. "This is keyed to my voice, and it has a special combination as well. Yes, I'm ready." He put the device away.
Mary said, "We want to show you around Mar Vista first of all. Then we'll make explanations and answer any questions you want to ask. But no questions till you get an over-all picture. Is that agreeable?" The Council had decided that this was the best method of playing for time. Whether or not it would work with Mitchell, Mary could not know; but she was relieved when he nodded casually.
"That'll do nicely. What about protective suits? Or—" He studied Ashworth and the woman closely. "You seem normal enough."
"We are," Ashworth said dryly. "No questions yet, though."
Mitchell hesitated, toyed with his cigar, and finally nodded again. But his eyes were wary. He stared around the bare little room.
Mary said, "This is an elevator. We've been going up. Let's start at the top and work down."
A valve widened in the wall as she went toward it.
Ashworth and Mitchell followed.
-
Three hours later they sat in a lounge in the subbasement. Mary's nerves were taut. If Ashworth's were, he didn't show it. He casually mixed surrogate drinks and passed them around.
"Your report's due, senator," he said.
Mitchell took out his gadget but he didn't use it. "I've some questions to ask," he said. "I'm certainly not satisfied."
"All right. Questions and explanations. Meanwhile, we don't want bombs dropping on the roof."
"I doubt if they'd go that far—yet," Mitchell said. "I will admit that there's a lot of suspicion about Mar Vista General, and if I didn't report back—and if you failed to explain that satisfactorily—there probably would be bombs. Well—" He spoke into the pocket-visor, snapped the lens, and put it away. He settled back, clipping a fresh cigar.
"I am not satisfied," he repeated.
-
And relay circuits picked up Mitchell's report and forwarded it from television stations on peaks and summits. It spread out across the globe.
In hundreds of thousands of homes and offices, men and women turned idly to their televisors and activated them by word or gesture.
A routine report. Nothing interesting yet.
The men and women returned to the routine of their lives—a routine that had changed enormously in eighty-four years.
-
Mitchell said, "Here is the story we tell the people. Mar Vista General is a research foundation. Specialized technicians working under specialized conditions can create along theoretically ideal lines. In Mar Vista you duplicate conditions on other planets—and create unusual environments of your own. Ordinarily, workers are subject to a thousand distractions. But in Mar Vista General the technician devotes his life to serving mankind. He gives up a normal life. After fifteen years, he is automatically retired, but no Councilman or Councilwoman has ever returned to his former place in society. Every one has chosen retirement in Shasta Monastery."
"You know it by heart," Mary said, in an even voice that didn't reveal her nervousness.
"Sure," Mitchell nodded. "I ought to. It's in all the text tapes. But I've just been through Mar Vista General. I've seen nothing like that. It's an ordinary research bureau, far less complicated than the Lower College. The technicians are normal and work under normal conditions. What is the idea?"
Ashworth held up his palm toward Mary. "Wait," he said, and took a sip of surrogate. "Now—Senator. I'll have to go back to history. There's an extremely simple explanation—"
"I admit I'd like to hear it, councilman."
"You shall. In a word, it's check-and-balance."
Mitchell stared. "That's no answer."
"It's the complete answer. Everything in nature has its natural control—theoretically. When the atomic blast was first created, it looked as though that balance had been upset. There was no defense against it. Well, that's quite true."
"There is no defense," Mitchell said. "Except—don't make atomic bombs."
"Which in itself is a control, if it can be arranged. A defence doesn't necessarily mean an impregnable shield. You can have a social defence to a problem of ballistics, you know. If you could condition everyone on earth against thinking of atomic fission, that would be a perfect defence, wouldn't it?"
"Perfect but impossible. We've got a sound solution."
"Autocratic control," Ashworth agreed. "Go back eighty-odd years. The bomb had been developed. The nations were scared to death. Of the bomb, and of each other. We'd got atomic power before we were ready for it. There were a few abortive wars—you can't dignify them with that name, but they were enough to start a biological chain reaction that ended in the natural control."
"The Global Unit? Mar Vista General?"
"The mutations," Ashworth said.
Mitchell let out his breath. "You haven't—"
"With additional knowledge, mankind could handle atomics," Ashworth said quickly. "But where can you get that type of knowledge? From a mutant, let's say."
The senator's hand was in his pocket, touching the televisor. Mary Gregson broke in.
"Sam, let me take over for a bit. It's my field—Senator. What do you know about the mutants, really?"
"I know there was a rash of them, after the atomic bombings. Some were plenty dangerous. That's why we had the Mutant Riots."
"Exactly. Some were potentially dangerous. But they all had delayed maturation. They could be detected—the ones who comprised a threat to mankind—and murdered before they had a chance to develop their full powers. As a matter of fact, we had a plague of atypical mutations. The atomic bombings weren't planned bio-genetically. Most mutants weren't viable, and of the ones that were, only a few were homo superior. And there were different types of homo superior, apparently. We didn't experiment much. When a kid started to use hypnotism on adults, or made similar superchild trials, he was discovered and examined. There are usually ways of finding out the breed, after super-adolescence begins. The gastrointestinal tract differs, the metabolism varies—"
-
Lynchings, burnings, the clean slash of a knife across a slender young throat. Mobs raging in Philadelphia, Chicago, Los Angeles. Children barricaded in hideouts, a few of them, confused by adolescence, their tremendous powers not yet forged into a deadly, dependable sword. But trying, with a dreadful will for survival—trying to live, while the lynch mobs crashed in the doors and flung flaming torches and set up machine guns.
The changelings. Fathers and mothers joining in the fury that destroyed the monster children.
A mother staring up in sick horror at a window above her, where her child stood—the extra arms beginning to sprout, a tertiary eye bulging the forehead where the skin had split.
Children—horrible, monstrous children—crying as they died. Parents listening, watching, remembering that only a few months ago these creatures had seemed perfectly normal.
-
"Look," Ashworth said, moving his hand. The floor beneath them changed to transparency. Mitchell stared down. An enlarging lens formed beneath him.
The room below was quite large. Machines filled most of it, complicated masterpieces of engineering far beyond any present science, Mitchell thought. But he wasn't greatly interested in the machine. He stared at the great bath where the superman floated.
"You ... traitors!" he said softly.
A weapon showed in Mary Gregson's hand. "Don't touch your visor," she warned.
Mitchell said, "You can't get away with this. The moment a homo superior matures, it's the end for homo sapiens—"
Ashworth's mouth twisted i
n contempt. "A stock phrase. It started during the Mutant Riots. You fool, look at that superman down there!"
Unwillingly Mitchell peered down again. He said, "Well?"
"It's not a superman. It's homo superior—retarded."
Mary said, "The senator has to make his visor report pretty soon, Sam."
"Then I'll talk fast," Ashworth said, glancing at a wall clock. "Or perhaps you'd better. Yes, it's your job, I think." He sat back, watching the senator.
When Central Power is activated, she thought. If we can play for time till then—if we can hold Mitchell off till the power goes on—we'll be impregnable. But we're not now. As vulnerable as the mutant children—
She said, "It's check-and-balance. This used to be a general hospital, you know. The Director's child was born here, and even at birth he suspected mutation. There was no way of telling with certainty, but both he and his wife had been exposed to the radiations at critical times. So the baby was reared here in secrecy. It wasn't easy, but he was the Director. He managed it. At the time of the Mutant Riots, the boy was beginning to show the stigmata. The Director called a group of technicians together, men he could trust, men with vision, and swore them to secrecy. That was easy enough, but the difficulty lay in convincing them. I helped there. Another doctor, an endocrinologist, and I had already experimented with the mutant. We had discovered how to retard him."
Mitchell's cigar moved jerkily. But he said nothing.
Mary went on. "The pineal and the thyroid, to begin with. The ductless glands control the mind and body. And, of course, the psychological factors. We learned how to retard the superboy's growth so that the dangerous talents—initiative, the aggressive faculty, and so forth—wouldn't develop. It's a simple matter of hormones. The machine is there, but we control the current that goes through its hookup."
