by Jerry
“It is very important for the brain to know you this well,” the director was saying, “because your position in our society will be based on its analysis of your character and capabilities. When you leave here, you will receive an orientation folio explaining all this. You will find that the brain has placed you in a position that will give you maximum opportunity to demonstrate your potential. It has found you a place to live that will meet even your most subtle desires. It has outfitted your apartment with the kind of books and art works you like best . . .” Here his voice dropped into a more confidential tone . . . “It has even selected a girl-friend whom you are sure to like, and who, I assure you, will like you.”
HANK SQUIRMED uncomfortably, and saw that he wasn’t the only one. His experiences with girls so far had been limited to the sex education classes at the Academy. He didn’t know how he would get along with one on his own. And he wasn’t at all sure that he liked having the brain choose his job and his books and his girl-friend for him . . .
“Now I know you are all eager to get out of here and see what life is going to be like,” the personnel director went on, “so I won’t keep you any longer. I want to remind you of just one other item. The electronic brain which tested you so many times at the Academy, and of which this is a duplicate, is only a tool—a servant. It is not your master. You are under no obligation to accept its advice. When you leave here today, you will be free to make your own contacts and to ally yourselves with any employer who offers you a job. We insist only that for the present, at least, you take the apartment assigned you. As in all ages, we are cursed with a housing problem. Later you can make certain applications for moving—even to another bubble if you want to take the chance.”
HANK COULD tell from the remarks around him that no one had the faintest desire to move to another bubble. In fact, the director’s last words had eased his own feelings considerably. He was willing to believe now that the whole thing was not only organized thoroughly, but quite reasonably.
“I suggest now that you all take taxis to your new apartments and study the orientation folios that will be handed you as you leave the room,” the personnel director concluded. “Your apartment address will be printed on the outside of the folio. Inside, you will find, in greater detail, the information I have given you here, and everything should be self-explanatory. If you still have questions, you will find a number to call that will connect you with my office. Good luck, gentlemen.”
There was another shout, and Hank found himself caught up in the mad scramble for the green doors at the end of the room.
OUTSIDE, in the immediate vicinity of the Personnel Building, the street was not much different from those in Bubble 1, the Academy. It was wider; Hank counted eight rails, and four of them were red—that meant two highspeed rails in each direction. The walks were broader, too; and the buildings were more diversified than the sterile monotony of the Academy. Otherwise, the view was more or less a familiar one. Then Hank gazed toward the center of the city and his pulse quickened. There the buildings were taller, and more beautifully curved; and even from a distance he imagined that he could see and hear the activity of ten million people living interesting, exciting lives. Suddenly the twenty years of study and discipline seemed worthwhile; this was the moment he had been waiting for—now his life could begin.
He pressed the footplate marked “Taxi” and slid into the sleek little vehicle that eased to a stop in front of him. He set the controls for a medium-speed rail, punched out the numbers of his new address on the destination panel, and settled back for his first ride through the streets of this, his own city: Bubble 14.
IT WAS NEARLY a month before Hank Ryerson revisited the Personnel Building. In that time, his life had changed in almost every way from the. dull captivity of the Academy. He had met his girlfriend and discovered that they really did like each other—even more than he bad expected. But he had to laugh when he remembered what it had been like standing outside her door that first night, wondering how the electronic brain could possibly know that he wanted a small, blue-eyed blonde, with soft curves, a subtle perfume, and a black negligee. Then the door had opened and Randy had stood there—a Bohemian out of the past—tight knee-length pants and a loose turtleneck sweater. Not small, not blueeyed, not blonde, no perfume—at least not right then—and not even owning a black negligee. But she was well-curved; he had to admit that; and she was a damn smart kid—a nuclear technician on the second level. They had hit it off perfectly. Not that first night, but within a week they were excellent companions. Hank couldn’t help remembering the personal director’s words, “The brain knows you better than you know yourself.”
AT THE LAB, everything had turned out all right too. He had been assigned to the third level. It was almost unbelievable. The rumor had always been that ninety percent of the graduates went to the first level, and a select few went to the second—he didn’t know that anyone ever went straight from the Academy to the third level. All those years he had been cursing the brain it must have been giving him straight A’s. Now he had a salary of thirty thousand a year, a luxurious apartment, and the distinction of being the only first-year man on the third level.
His responsibilities had not been too clearly defined so far, but he assumed that things would change after a while. He was a supervisor, of a sort, over some engineers on the second level who were developing a new engine. The identity of the vehicle that was to use the engine was so highly classified that no one on the third level knew anything about it. Of course Hank didn’t let the engineers under him know this.
The truth was that he had had so little to do that he had found more time to think than ever before in his life. The result of some of that thinking led him once again to the Personnel Building.
This time he actually met the director, himself, and was invited to make himself at home.
THE DIRECTOR was a pleasant-faced man in his fifties—not at all as officious as Hank had imagined him to be. After a few minutes of assuring the director that everything was just fine with his job and with his personal life, Hank came around to the point of his visit.
“I guess you know that my parents are Ordinary People,” he said. “Farmers, I think. They live somewhere out in the wasteland.”
The personal director nodded. “I glanced at your card when your name was announced.”
Hank hesitated, then tightened his jaw and went on. “I also have a twin brother out there. He’s a—a farmer too, I guess.”
The director showed no surprise, just sat at his desk with his chin resting on his folded hands. After a while, when Hank had remained silent, the director said, “Do you want me to contact your relatives? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Still Hank hesitated. Finally he blurted, “I don’t know what I want, to tell you the truth. I guess I came to ask for advice. I don’t know any of them, and I don’t know what it’s like out there. I don’t think I really want to visit them, but maybe I should—that is, if you’ll let me . . .”
The director smiled. “I couldn’t prevent you if I Wanted to. No one could. You are a free citizen. But I can tell you what it’s like out there, and you can make up your own mind.”
HANK LEANED forward expectantly, but the director took his time. He filled his pipe with deliberate care, lit it, then studied Hank for a long moment. Finally he leaned back in his chair and spoke in a soft voice.
“The Ordinary Men, as we call them today, were separated from the scientists about two hundred years ago. Before that, people lived wherever they chose. They had what were then called cities—today we would call them garbage dumps. They were dirty, noisy, and dark. They had daylight only when the sun was shining, and this encouraged certain adverse activities called crimes. People hurt each other, and robbed each other, and in various ways invaded one another’s privacy. Everybody was sick at least half the time, if not with a physical disease, then with a psychological one.
“Their cities were not level, their s
treets were designed at random—some of them going up hills; others were curved, or jagged, or intermittent. They had many kinds of vehicles chugging, puffing, screaming—some on the ground, some overhead. They ate primitive foods—either cooked animals or vegetables taken right from the ground.”
The director paused abruptly when he saw that his pipe was not lit. Hank waited almost breathlessly for him to continue. Of course he had studied history at the Academy, but he had never heard it encapsulated so effectively. For the first time in his life he was beginning to appreciate the debt that society owed to the builders of the bubbles.
“Well, to cut this all down to size,” the director resumed, “this is pretty much the way things are even today out in the wasteland. We have helped them all we can, but they continue to defeat themselves. They have no self-discipline. As you know, the children are raised by the parents, though the parents have not generally had any special preparation for raising them. In fact, the Ordinary Man’s entire history is one of allowing unqualified persons to assume responsibility.
“Their legislative bodies are composed of people with a hodge-podge of backgrounds. Anybody can run for office who wants to, no matter what his previous training or experience. They are still a very primitive people. If we let them in here they would pollute us, and eventually they would kill us off.”
HIS VOICE had become increasingly more decisive as he spoke until, at the end, it carried a definite, almost absolute ring to it. It seemed to Hank that when the director paused, it was more for effect than to enable him to collect his thoughts. He gave every indication of knowing exactly what he wanted to say—as if he had said it many times before . . .
When the director did continue, it was in a milder tone and reminded Hank of the first few years at the Academy when the brain had explained the simple facts of life to the students.
“There has always been a barrier between scientists and laymen,” he said. “First it was the barrier of ideas, then behavior—and finally of language. A few centuries ago this barrier became insurmountable. Scientists could no longer explain their complex discoveries in words simple enough for laymen, or Ordinary Men, as we now call them, to understand. The result was inevitable: mutual distrust. First between nations, then within the nations themselves. Wars became increasingly more devastating, famines and plagues came along even worse than in the Dark Ages. Complete disintegration was not far off. Then some farsighted people began the separation movement about two hundred years ago, and you know the rest.”
HANK EASED back in his chair and tried to correlate it all. “But is it necessary to discourage all contact with the Ordinary People? Even on an individual basis?”
The director shrugged. “We tried half-way measures for a while—it was disasterous. It is far better this way.” Then he smiled, almost patronizingly, Hank thought, and said, “I can assure you that your parents and your brother are comfortable, and quite safe, if that’s what concerns you.”
Hank remained silent for a while, wondering just what his true motivation was. A residual urge dating back to the old days of family life, he supposed. Might as well let well enough alone. After all, his brother could have entered the Academy on a special basis any time up to his fifteenth birthday . . .
“No, I wasn’t worried about them exactly,” he said slowly. “I guess I was thinking more of myself—my obligation to them, or something. You’ve helped me a great deal. I can see now that I wouldn’t know what to say if I did see them. I certainly couldn’t explain any of my research to a person who didn’t have a good grounding in basic neutronics. I’m sorry I used up so much of your time.”
“Quite all right,” the director said, rising. “I’m glad you feel better about it. My office is open at any time.”
Hank found his way outside and took a taxi back to his apartment. As he watched the beautiful buildings of Bubble 14 grow before him he felt a tremendous sense of relief at not having to go out into the wasteland—even on a visit.
A FEW DAYS later, another Ryerson—John Ryerson—was driving his own automobile through the wasteland (though he didn’t call it that) toward Bubble 14. When he arrived, he was ushered into the same office that his twin brother had visited a day or two before. He went in through a different door, however, and instead of seeing the words “Personnel Director” printed on it, he saw only the one word, “Warden.”
“I am John Ryerson from Ohio,” he told the man behind the desk. “I have a twin brother in here someplace—at least I guess he’s in here. His twenty years was up a few weeks ago. I heard that he was studying physics.”
The warden stood up and extended his hand. He motioned for Ryerson to be seated, then settled back into his own chair.
“Yes, Mr. Ryerson, your brother is here,” he said, studying a card he had taken from a file when Ryerson’s name had been announced. “As a matter of coincidence, I was talking with him only a few days ago.”
“Is he—is he all right?” Ryerson asked.
“He’s very much all right. He is a graduate research physicist, assigned to an important project. I hope you aren’t thinking of applying for his release.”
RYERSON squirmed a little and lit a cigaret to hide his self-consciousness. “No, I’m sold on the idea of separation. We need scientists, and I guess Henry was inclined that way. I just wondered if I shouldn’t see him. Do you think he would like to have any visitors? Me, or his parents maybe?”
The warden took a few contented puffs on his pipe, then said slowly, “Well, there’s no law against it, but I wouldn’t advise it. You know as well as I do that there is no way to stop a scientist, once he gets an idea in his head. He can be a kindly old man who goes to church every Sunday and loves his fellow man with all his heart—yet he will design a gadget that can blow us all to Ganymede. We have to keep them under close control. Now please understand me. I am not accusing scientists of being criminals. I am merely pointing out that their preoccupation with scientific matters has, in the past, made them easy prey for unscrupulous persons who have used their discoveries to further criminal aims. The entire idea of separation is to protect scientists from these criminal influences.”
Ryerson held up both hands in protest. “Oh, I’m not arguing against separation—there’s no alternative. But do you think just a visit could . . .”
“A visit would reveal to him that he’s a prisoner,” the warden said flatly. “Right now, he thinks he’s a privileged character.”
RYERSON thought it over for a while. It could be dangerous, he supposed, to establish any kind of contact with his brother after all these years. And what good would it do?
What could they possibly talk about? Henry wouldn’t know anything about agriculture. There would be no way that he could make a living on the outside, even if he did get out. He wouldn’t even be able to milk a cow . . .
“I guess you’re right,” Ryerson said at last, but with a certain reluctance. “Mother wanted me to make sure that he was okay—that he didn’t need anything. Do you give him—I mean, does he have any money at all?”
“Of course he has money,” the warden assured him. “He gets thirty dollars a year, though we call it thirty thousand . . .”
Ryerson started to object.
“Now wait a minute,” the warden said. “We have to teach them a certain amount of history and economics—they’d be suspicious if they didn’t get a reasonable income. Anyway, what’s the difference? The money is all printed in another bubble—it isn’t real money.”
Ryerson had to admit that it was probably a good idea. After all, scientists never did care much for money. “By the way, what’s he working on?
Can you tell me that?”
The warden smiled, almost sadly, and said, “A street sweeper—but a very modern one,” he hastened to add. “You’ll soon see. They’re scheduled for delivery next year sometime. Now please don’t worry about your brother,” he said, rising, and holding out his hand. “And give my regards to your parents.”
<
br /> RYERSON shook hands somewhat eagerly. Inwardly he was relieved at not having to go any further into the prison. It wasn’t as if he had ever really known his brother . . .
“I know I’ve taken up a lot of your time,” he apologized. “I did wonder, however, how you kept them thinking they were free if you never let them out of here?”
The warden smiled and raised his eyebrows confidentially. “After all, Mr. Ryerson, I’m supposed to be a psychologist.”
All Ryerson could think of to reply to that was, “Of course.”
He still wasn’t sure that he accepted the warden’s point of
view until he was on his way back to his farm. Then, little by little, a feeling of satisfaction came over him. He was able to convince himself that he had done everything he could for his brother. Anyway, the guy probably liked the place. If not, he could have asked for a release anytime up to his fifteenth birthday . . .
PSYCHOLOGIST Stanley Johnson re-lit his pipe and settled back into his comfortable chair quite pleased with himself. He found it especially pleasant remembering that his three year tour of duty would be over in just ten more days. Then he would be able to get back to Bubble IS and rest a while—maybe even take his family on that vacation to Mars they had talked about. Wouldn’t hurt to look around the little planet, he mused. The Martians were getting out of hand. The government might be building some bubbles there one of these days, and a man who knew his way around just might happen to get a good position when the time came.
He sighed and placed his pipe in his ashtray. One more gang of scientists to take care of first, however. What the devil could he give them to work on? He wished he could give them the spaceship drive problem, but it hadn’t been released. Well, he’d worry about that later. Had to get the mating business out of the way first.
He opened a drawer of his desk and drew out a pack of cards. He shuffled them a few times, then placed the pack face up on the desk before him. It was a stack of ID cards for the next arrivals from the Academy.
