by Jack Vance
Still, better or worse, where was his choice? Conform or declassify. A poor choice. There was always the recourse of the suggestion box, as Fedor Miskitman, perhaps in bland jest, had pointed out. Luke growled in disgust. Weeks later he might receive a printed form with one statement of a multiple-choice list checked off by some clerical flunky or junior executive: “The situation described by your petition is already under study by responsible officials. Thank you for your interest.” Or, “The situation described by your petition is the product of established policy and is not subject to change. Thank you for your interest.”
A novel thought occurred to Luke: he might exert himself and reclassify up the list... .As soon as the idea arrived he dismissed it. In the first place he was close to middle age; too many young men were pushing up past him. Even if he could goad himself into the competition....
The line moved slowly forward. Behind Luke a plump little man sagged under the weight of a Velstro inchskip. A forelock of light brown floss dangled over his moony face; his mouth was puckered into a rosebud of concentration; his eyes were absurdly serious. He wore a rather dapper
pink and brown coverall with orange ankle-boots and a blue beret with the three orange pompoms affected by the Velstro technicians.
Between shabby, sour-mouthed Luke and this short moony man in the dandy’s overalls existed so basic a difference that an immediate mutual dislike was inevitable.
The short man’s prominent hazel eyes rested on Luke’s shovel, traveled thoughtfully over Luke’s dirt-stained trousers and jacket. He turned his eyes to the side.
“Come a long way?” Luke asked maliciously.
“Not far,” said the moon-faced man.
“Worked overtime, eh?” Luke winked. “A bit of quiet beavering, nothing like it—or so I’m told.”
“We finished the job,” said the plump man, with dignity. “Beavering doesn’t enter into it. Why spend half tomorrow’s shift on five minutes’ work we could do tonight?”
“I know a reason,” said Luke wisely. “To do your fellow man a good one in the eye.”
The moon-faced man twisted his mouth in a quick uncertain smile, then decided that the remark was not humorous. “That’s not my way of working,” he said stiffly.
“That thing must be heavy,” said Luke, noting how the plump little arms struggled and readjusted to the irregular contours of the tool.
“Yes,” came the reply. “It is heavy.”
“An hour and a half,” intoned Luke. “That’s how long it’s taking me to park this shovel. Just because somebody up the list has a nightmare. And we poor hoodlums at the bottom suffer.”
“I’m not at the bottom of the list. I’m a Technical Tool Operator.”
“No difference,” said Luke. “The hour and a half is the same, just for somebody’s silly notion.”
“It’s not really so silly,” said the moon-faced man. “I fancy there is a good reason for the policy.”
Luke shook the shovel by its handle. “And so I have to carry this back and forth along the man-belt three hours a day?”
The little man pursed his lips. “The author of the directive undoubtedly knows his business very well. Otherwise he’d not hold his classification.”
“Just who is this unsung hero?” sneered Luke. “I’d like to meet him. I’d like to learn why he wants me to waste three hours a day.”
The short man now regarded Luke as he might an insect in his victual ration. “You talk like a Nonconformist. Excuse me if I seem offensive.”
“Why apologize for something you can’t help?” asked Luke and turned his back.
He flung his shovel to the clerk behind the wicket and received a
Dodkin’s Job
check. Elaborately Luke turned to the moon-faced man and tucked the check into the breast pocket of the pink and brown coveralls. “You keep this; you’ll be using that shovel before I will.”
He stalked proudly out of the warehouse. A grand gesture, but—he hesitated before stepping on the man-belt—was it sensible? The technical tool operator in the pink and brown coveralls came out of the warehouse behind him, giving him a queer glance, and hurried away.
Luke looked back into the warehouse. If he returned now he could set things right, and tomorrow there’d be no trouble. If he stormed off to his dormitory, it meant another declassification. Luke Grogatch, Junior Executive. Luke reached into his jumper and took out the policy directive he had acquired from Fedor Miskitman: a bit of yellow paper, printed with a few lines of type, a trivial thing in itself—but it symbolized the Organization: massive force in irresistible operation. Nervously Luke plucked the paper and looked back into the warehouse. The tool operator had called him a Nonconformist; Luke’s mouth squirmed in a brief, weary grimace. It wasn’t true. Luke was not a Nonconformist; Luke was nothing in particular. And he needed his bed, his nutrition ticket, his meager expense account. Luke groaned quietly—almost a whisper. The end of the road. He had gone as far as he could go; had he ever thought he could defeat the Organization? Maybe he was wrong and everyone else was right. Possible, thought Luke without conviction. Miskitman seemed content enough; the technical tool operator seemed not only content but complacent. Luke leaned against the warehouse wall, eyes burning and moist with self-pity. Nonconformist. Misfit. What was he going to do?
He curled his lip spitefully, stepped forward onto the man-belt. Devil take them all! They could declassify him; he’d become a junior executive and laugh!
In subdued spirits Luke rode back to the Grimesby Hub. Here, about to board the escalator, he stopped short, blinking and rubbing his long sallow chin, considering still another aspect to the matter. It seemed to offer the chance of—but no. Hardly likely.. .and yet, why not? Once again he examined the directive. Lavester Limon, Manager of the District Office of Procurement, presumably had issued the policy; Lavester Limon could rescind it. If Luke could so persuade Limon, his troubles, while not dissipated, at least would be lessened. He could report shovel-less to his job; he could return sardonic grin for bland hidden grin with Fedor Miskitman. He might even go to the trouble of locating the moon-faced little technical tool operator with the inchskip....
Luke sighed. Why continue this futile daydream? First Lavester Limon must be induced to rescind the directive—and what were the odds of this?... .Perhaps not astronomical, after all, mused Luke as he rode the man-belt back to his dormitory. The directive clearly was impractical. It
worked an inconvenience on many people, while accomplishing very little. If Laves ter Limon could be persuaded of this, if he could be shown that his own prestige and reputation were suffering, he might agree to recall the ridiculous directive.
Luke arrived at his dormitory shortly after seven. He went immediately to the communication booth, called the District 8892 Office of Procure - ment. Lavester Limon, he was told, would be arriving at eight-thirty.
Luke made a careful toilet, and after due consideration invested four Special Coupons in a fresh set of fibers: a tight black jacket and blue trousers of somewhat martial cut, of considerably better quality than his usual costume. Surveying himself in the washroom mirror, Luke felt that he cut not so poor a figure.
He took his morning quota of nutrition at a nearby Type RP Victualing Service, then ascended to the Sublevel 14 and rode the man-belt to District 8892 Bureau of Sewer Construction and Maintenance.
A pert office girl, dark hair pulled forward over her face in the modish “robber baron” style, conducted Luke into Lavester Limon’s office. At the door she glanced demurely backward, and Luke was glad that he had invested in new clothes. Responding to the stimulus, he threw back his shoulders and marched confidently into Lavester Limon’s office.
Lavester Limon, sitting at his desk, bumped briefly to his feet in courteous acknowledgement—an amiable-seeming man of middle stature, golden-brown hair brushed carefully across a freckled and suntanned bald spot; golden-brown eyes, round and easy; a golden-brown lounge jacket and trousers of fi
ne golden-brown corduroy. He waved his arm at a chair. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Grogatch?”
In the presence of so much cordiality Luke relaxed his truculence, and even felt a burgeoning of hope. Limon seemed a decent sort; perhaps the directive was, after all, an administrative error.
Limon raised his golden-brown eyebrows inquiringly.
Luke wasted no time on preliminaries. He brought forth the directive. “My business concerns this, Mr. Limon: a policy which you seem to have formulated.”
Limon took the directive, read, nodded. “Yes, that’s my policy. Something wrong?”
Luke felt surprise and a pang of premonition: surely so reasonable a man must instantly perceive the folly of the directive!
“It’s simply not a workable policy,” said Luke earnestly. “In fact, Mr. Limon, it’s completely unreasonable!”
Lavester Limon seemed not at all offended. “Well, well! And why do you say that? Incidentally, Mr. Grogatch, you’re....” Again the golden- brown eyebrows arched inquiringly.
“I’m a flunky, Class D, on a tunnel gang,” said Luke. “Today it took me an hour and a half to check my shovel. Tomorrow, there’ll be another
hour and a half checking the shovel out. All on my own time. I don’t think that’s reasonable.”
Lavester Limon reread the directive, pursed his lips, nodded his head once or twice. He spoke into his desk phone. “Miss Rab, I’d like to see—” he consulted the directive’s reference number—“Item seven^five-four- two, File G ninety-eight.” To Luke he said in rather an absent voice: “Sometimes these things become a trifle complicated.”
“But can you change the policy?” Luke burst out. “Do you agree that it’s unreasonable?”
Limon cocked his head to the side, made a doubtful grimace. “We’ll see what’s on the reference. If my memory serves me....” His voice faded away.
Twenty seconds passed. Limon tapped his fingers on his desk. A soft chime sounded. Limon touched a button and his desk-screen exhibited the item he had requested: another policy directive similar in form to the first.
PUBLIC WORKS DEPARTMENT, PUBLIC UTILITIES DIVISION AGENCY OF SANITARY WORKS, DISTRICT 8892 SEWAGE DISPOSAL SECTION Director’s Office
2888 Series BQ008 GZP—AAR—REF OP9 123 BR—EQ—LLT
JR D-SDS AC
CXMcD
Policy Directive: Order Code: Reference:
Date Code:
Authorized:
Checked:
Counterchecked:
From: Judiath Ripp, Director
To: Lavester Limon, Manager, Office of Procurement
Attention:
Subject: Economies of operation
Instant of Application: Immediate
Duration of Relevance: Permanent
Substance: Your monthly quota of supplies for
disbursement Type A, B, D, F, H is hereby reduced 2.2%. It is suggested that you advise affected personnel of this reduction, and take steps to insure most stringent economies. It has been noticed that department use of supplies Type D in particular is in excess of calculated norm.
Suggestion: Greater care by individual users of tools,
including warehouse storage at night.
“Type D supplies,” said Lavester Limon wryly, “are hand tools. Old Ripp wants stringent economies. I merely pass along the word. That’s the story behind six-five-one-one.” He returned the directive in question to Luke and leaned back in his seat. “I can see how you’re exercised, but—” he raised his hands in a careless, almost flippant gesture—“that’s the way the Organization works.”
Luke sat rigid with disappointment. “Then you won’t revoke the directive?”
“My dear fellow! How can I?”
Luke made an attempt at reckless nonchalance. “Well, there’s always room for me among the junior executives. I told them where to put their shovel.”
“Mmmf. Rash. Sorry I can’t help.” Limon surveyed Luke curiously, and his lips curved in a faint grin. “Why don’t you tackle old Ripp?”
Luke squinted sideways in suspicion. “What good will that do?”
“You never know,” said Limon breezily. “Suppose lightning strikes— suppose he rescinds his directive? I can’t agitate with him myself; I’d get in trouble—but there’s no reason why you can’t.” He turned Luke a quick, knowing smile, and Luke understood that Lavester Limon’s amiability, while genuine, served as a useful camouflage for self-interest and artful playing of the angles.
Luke rose abruptly to his feet. He played cat’s paw for no one, and he opened his mouth to tell Lavester Limon as much. In that instant a recollection crossed his mind: the scene in the warehouse, where he had contemptuously tossed the check for his shovel to the technical tool operator. Always Luke had been prone to the grand gesture, the reckless commitment which left him no scope for retreat. When would he learn self-control? In a subdued voice Luke asked, “Who is this Ripp again?”
“Judiath Ripp, Director of the Sewage Disposal Section. You may have difficulty getting in to see him; he’s a troublesome old brute. Wait, I’ll find out if he’s at his office.”
He made inquiries into his desk phone. Information returned to the effect that Judiath Ripp had just arrived at the Section office on Sublevel 3, under Bramblebury Park.
Limon gave Luke tactical advice. “He’s choleric—something of a barker. Here’s the secret: pay no attention to him. He respects firmness. Pound the table. Roar back at him. If you pussyfoot he’ll sling you out. Give him tit for tat and he’ll listen.”
Luke looked hard at Lavester Limon, well aware that the twinkle in the golden-brown eyes was malicious glee. He said, “I’d like a copy of that directive, so he’ll know what I’m talking about.”
Limon sobered instantly. Luke could read his mind: Will Ripp hold it against me if I send up this crackpot ? It’s worth the chance . “Sure,” said Limon. “Pick it up from the girl”
Luke ascended to Sublevel 3 and walked through the pleasant trilevel arcade below Bramblebury Park. He passed the tall, glass-walled fishtank open to the sky and illuminated by sunlight, boarded the local man-belt, and after a ride of two or three minutes alighted in front of the District 8892 Agency of Sanitary Works.
The Sewage Disposal Section occupied a rather pretentious suite off a small courtyard garden. Luke walked along a passage tiled with blue, gray, and green mosaic and entered a white room furnished in pale gray and pink. A long mural of cleverly twisted gold, black, and white tubing decorated one wall; another was swathed in heavy green leaves growing from a chest-high planter. At a desk sat the receptionist, a plump pouty blonde girl with a simulated bone through her nose and a shark’s-tooth necklace dangling around her neck. She wore her hair tied up over her head like a sheaf of wheat, and an amusing black and brown primitive symbol decorated her forehead.
Luke explained that he wished a few words with Mr. Judiath Ripp, Director of the Section.
Perhaps from uneasiness, Luke spoke brusquely. The girl, blinking in surprise, examined him curiously. After a moment’s hesitation she shook her head doubtfully. “Won’t someone else do? Mr. Ripp’s day is tightly scheduled. What did you want to see him about?”
Luke, attempting a persuasive smile, achieved instead a leer of sinister significance. The girl was frankly startled.
“Perhaps you’ll tell Mr. Ripp I’m here,“ said Luke. “One of his policy directives—-well, there have been irregularities, or rather a misapplication—”
“Irregularities?” The girl seemed to hear only the single word. She gazed at Luke with new eyes, observing the crisp new black and blue garments with their quasi-military cut. Some sort of inspector? “I’ll call Mr. Ripp,” she said nervously. “Your name, sir, and status?”
“Luke Grogatch. My status—” Luke smiled once more, and the girl averted her eyes. “It’s not important.”
“Ill call Mr. Ripp, sir. One moment, if you please.” She swung around, murmured anxiously into her screen, looked at Luk
e, and spoke again. A thin voice rasped a reply. The girl swung back around and nodded at Luke. “Mr. Ripp can spare a few minutes. The first door, please.”
Luke walked with stiff shoulders into a tall, wood-paneled room, one wall of which displayed green-glowing tanks of darting red and yellow fish. At the desk sat Judiath Ripp, a tall, heavy man, himself resembling a large fish. His head was narrow, pale as mackerel, and rested backward-tilting on his shoulders. He had no perceptible chin; the neck ran up to his carplike mouth. Pale eyes stared at Luke over small round nostrils; a low
brush of hair thrust up from the rear of his head like dry grass over a sand dune. Luke remembered Lavester Limon’s verbal depiction of Ripp: “choleric.” Hardly appropriate. Had Limon a grudge against Ripp? Was he using Luke as an instrument of mischievous revenge? Suspecting as much, Luke felt uncomfortable and awkward.
Judiath Ripp surveyed him with cold unblinking eyes. “What can I do for you, Mr. Grogatch? My secretary tells me you are an investigator of some sort.”
Luke considered the situation, his narrow black eyes fixed on Ripp’s face. He told the exact truth. “For several weeks I have been working in the capacity of a Class D Flunky on a tunnel gang.”
“What the devil do you investigate on a tunnel gang?” Ripp asked in chilly amusement.
Luke made a slight gesture, one signifying much of nothing, as the other might choose to take it. “Last night the foreman of this gang received a policy directive issued by Lavester Limon of the Office of Procurement. For sheer imbecility this policy caps any of my experience.”
“If it’s Limon’s doings, I can well believe it,” said Ripp between his teeth.
“I sought him out in his office. He refused to accept the responsibility and referred me to you.”
Ripp sat a trifle straighter in his chair. “What policy is this?”
Luke passed the two directives across the desk. Ripp read slowly, then reluctantly returned the directives. “I fail to see exactly—” He paused. “I should say, these directives merely reflect instructions received by me which I have implemented. Where is the difficulty?”
