by Walter Tevis
I do not know what has become of Mary Lou. The pains I can stand, for I know they could be worse and they will probably get better; but not knowing if I will ever see Mary Lou again and not knowing what has been done with her are more than I feel I can bear. I must find a way to die.
At first, without Mary Lou and with the shock of what had happened to me, I did not want to write again. Not ever. I was allowed to keep my pen and the pages of my journal, which I stuffed into my jacket pocket without thinking when I was taken away. But I had no fresh paper to write on, and I made no effort to find any. I know I had started my journal with no reader in mind—for I was, then, the only person alive who could read. But I came to realize later that Mary Lou had become my audience. I was writing my journal for her. It seemed to me, then, than it was pointless to go on writing in prison, in this horrible place, without her.
I know I would not be writing now if a strange thing had not happened this noon, after I had finished my morning shift at the shoe factory and had gone to wash my face and hands before eating the wretched lunch of bread and protein soup they serve us here and that we are required to eat in silence. It happened in the little steel washroom with its three dirty washstands. I had washed my sore hands as well as I could with cold water and no soap and reached up to pull a paper towel out of the dispenser. As I touched the dispenser, awkwardly because my hands were stiff and cramped from yesterday’s fieldwork, it fell open and a high stack of folded paper towels dropped into my hands. I grabbed them instinctively and then winced with the pain of it. But I held on to them, staring at them, and I realized that I was holding a stack of hundreds of sheets of strong, coarse paper. Paper that could be written on.
So much of what is important in my life seems to happen by accident. I found the reading film and books by accident, and I met Mary Lou by accident, and found Dictionary by accident. And the paper I am now writing on fell into my hands by accident. I do not know what to think about this; but I am glad to write again, even if no one will read it and even if I find a way to die tomorrow.
I will stop now. I have dropped the pen too many times. My hand will not hold it.
Mary Lou. Mary Lou. I cannot stand this.
DAY EIGHTY-EIGHT
It is five days since I last wrote. My hands are better now, stronger, and I can hold the pen fairly well. But my back and side still ache.
My feet are better. After several days here I noticed that many of my fellow prisoners were barefoot, and I reported for work the next morning without my shoes. My feet are still sore, but they are healing. And my muscles are beginning to feel stronger, tighter.
I am not happy! I am very unhappy, but I no longer am certain that I want to die. Drowning is a possibility. But I will wait awhile before I decide.
The robot guards are horrible. One has beaten me, and I see them beat other prisoners. I know it is terribly wrong of me, but I would like to kill the one who beat me, before I die. I am shocked at myself for wanting that, but it is one of the things that make me want to live. He has tiny red eyes like some hateful and cruel animal, and heavy muscles that bulge under his brown uniform. I could smash his face with a brick.
And, before I die, I want to bring my journal up to now. It is still daylight outside. If I work steadily I think I can write about how I came to be sent here before I must go to sleep.
For several days Mary Lou and I had been coming back, over and over, to the book of poems. We would read them aloud to one another, only barely understanding them. One poem we kept coming back to is called “The Hollow Men.” Early one afternoon I was reading it aloud while sitting on the floor next to Mary Lou. I believe I can write the words down:
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass. . .
And that was as far as I got. The door opened and Dean Spofforth walked in. He stood over us hugely, folded his arms, and stared down. It was shocking to see him in my room like this. Mary Lou had never seen him before, and she was staring up at bun with her eyes very wide.
There was something odd about his appearance and it took me a moment to tell what it was. And then I realized it; Spofforth was wearing a broad black armband with the white face of Privacy . printed on it. I recognized it from a school lesson somewhere long ago; it was the armband of a Dectector.
Mary Lou was the first to speak. “What do you want?” she said. She did not sound frightened.
“You are both under arrest,” Spofforth said. And then, “I want you both to stand.”
We stood up. I was still holding the book. “Well?” Mary Lou said.
Spofforth looked her steadily in the face. “I am a Detector, and you have been detected.”
I could tell that she was shocked and trying not to show it. I wanted to put my arm around her, to protect her somehow. But I just stood there.
Spofforth was much taller than either of us, and his dignity and force were overwhelming. I had always been afraid of him and now his saying that he was a Detector had me speechless.
“Detected doing what?” Mary Lou said. There was a slight trembling in her voice.
Spofforth stared at her, unblinking. “Detected in cohabitation. Detected in the teaching of reading and detected in the act of reading itself.”
“But, Dean Spofforth,” I broke in, “you already knew I could . . .”
“Yes,” he said, “and I told you clearly that reading would not be taught at this university. The teaching of reading is a crime.”
Something sank deep inside me. I felt the strength and excitement that had been so much of my life for recent days all go away and I was standing in front of this massive robot like a little child. “A crime?” I said.
“Yes, Bentley,” he said. “Your hearing will be tomorrow. You are to remain in your room until I return in the morning.”
Then he took Mary Lou by the arm and said, “You will come with me.”
She tried to pull away from him and then, finding she could not break his grip, she said, “Bug off, robot. Bug off, for Christ’s sake.”
He looked at her and seemed to laugh. “That won’t work,” he said. But his voice softened and he added, “No harm will come to you.”
And as he went out the door he turned and looked at me. “Don’t be too unhappy, Bentley. This may all be for the best.”
She went with him without a struggle, and he pulled the door shut behind himself.
No harm? What worse harm could there be than this separation? Where is she? Where is Mary Lou?
I am crying as I write. I cannot finish now. I will take sopors and sleep.
DAY EIGHTY-NINE
There is more to tell than I can say in the time that I have. But I will try.
Spofforth himself took me to court. I was handcuffed and he brought me on a black thought bus to a place in Central Park called Justice House. It was a two-story plastic building with dirty windows.
The courtroom was large. There were many pictures of strange-looking men on the walls. Some of them were wearing the suits and ties that I had seen in ancient films. One man stood in front of a bookcase, much like Douglas Fairbanks. And under his picture there was writing. It said: “Sydney Fairfax, Chief Justice.” And under this, in smaller print, were the numbers 1997-2014. I believe those numbers were what are called “dates.”
There was a black-robed robot judge sitting in an armchair at the far end of the courtroom, facing the entranceway. I started when I saw him; I had seen his face before. It was the face of the Make Seven headmaster at the dormitory in Ohio where I had been educated. An Upper-Management Robot. I remembered hearing once, “All Make Sevens look alike.” And I, being just a child, had said, “Why?” and the child I was talking to had said, “Don’t ask; relax.”
The judge was dorm
ant when we came in. That is, his power had been turned off. Next to him was sitting, also dormant, and in a lower, simpler chair, a Make Four clerk robot.
When we got closer I could see that there was yellowish dust, like that in the sealed-off part of the library, all over each of them. The intelligent-looking creases on the judge’s face were filled with yellow dust. His hands were folded in his lap, and from his right forearm to his chin a spider had built a web, some time ago. There were holes in the web, and dust on it. A few tiny bodies of insects, like dried snot, hung on the remains of the web. There was no spider visible.
Behind the judge was the Great Seal of North America, just like the one in Piety House at the Thinker Dormitory. It too was covered with dust, which had settled thickly on the relief images of dove and heart; and the plasticasts of the twin Holy Goddesses of Individualism and Privacy, which flanked the Great Seal, were also covered with dust.
Spofforth placed me in the defendant’s chair, which was made of something called wood and was uncomfortable. Then he removed my handcuffs, with a surprisingly gentle touch, and had me place my right hand in the Truth Hole that sat directly in front of me. He said quietly, “For each lie you tell, a ringer will be severed. Answer the judge with care.”
I had, of course, learned of Truth Holes, and of courts, in my Minimal Civics classes. But I had never seen these things before and I found myself trembling with fright. Perhaps the fright was made worse by the resemblance so many things bore to the dormitories, and to the time I was punished for Privacy Imposition as a child. I shifted my weight in the hard seat, tried to make myself comfortable, and waited.
Spofforth looked around the room as though he were studying the holes in the plaster, or the pictures of ancient men, or the empty wood benches. Then he walked over to the judge and ran a finger down the side of the robot’s cheek and then looked at the little pile of dust on his finger. “Inexcusable,” he said.
He turned to the clerk and said, in an authoritative voice, “Activate yourself, Clerk of the Court.”
The clerk did not move except for his mouth. He said, “Who commands the court?”
“I am a Robot Rational. Make Nine. I command you to awaken.”
Immediately the clerk stood. Some debris fell from his lap onto the floor. “Yes, your honor. I am awake and active.”
“I want you to summon a cleaning crew and have the judge cleaned. Immediately.” Then Spofforth looked at the bits of yellow dust and debris that were clinging to the clerk’s lap and said, “Have yourself cleaned up too.”
The clerk spoke respectfully. “The court servos and cleaning crew are no longer operable, your honor.”
“Why not?”
“Dead batteries and general malfunction, your honor.”
“Why haven’t they been repaired?”
“There have been no repair crews in Central Park for sixty yellows, your honor.”
“All right,” Spofforth said. “Then get cleaning materials yourself and clean the two of you up.”
“Yes, your honor.” The clerk turned and walked slowly out of the room. He limped badly, with one of his legs almost dragging behind him.
A few minutes later he returned with a pail of water and a sponge. He walked up to the judge and, dipping the sponge in water, began wiping off the judge’s face. Some of the yellow dust smeared, but most of it came off. Then he began cleaning the judge’s hands, slowly and awkwardly.
Spofforth appeared impatient. I did not know that there was such a thing as an impatient robot; but Spofforth was tapping a foot audibly. Then, abruptly, he strode to the seated judge, stooped, picked up the hem of the judge’s robe, and shook it vigorously. Dust flew everywhere. As it began to settle I saw that the spider web was gone.
Then Spofforth stood back and faced the judge. He told the clerk to stop and he stopped immediately, leaving a greenish stain on the judge’s left hand, still folded in his lap.
“Your services will not be needed for this hearing,” Spofforth told the clerk. “I will record the proceedings myself. While the hearing is in progress you may phone General Maintenance to send a City Cleaning and a City Repair robot immediately.”
The clerk looked at Spofforth stupidly. I think he was a Make Three—green lobes—and they are only a bit above moron robots. “The telephone doesn’t work,” he said.
“Then walk to General Maintenance. It’s about five blocks from here.”
“Walk?” the robot said.
“You clearly know how. Do you know where to go?”
“Yes, sir.” The clerk turned and began to limp toward the door. Spofforth said, “Wait,” and then, “Come here.”
The clerk turned around, came to him, and stood facing him. Spofforth bent down, took the clerk’s left leg in his hand, felt of it a moment, and then gave it an abrupt wrench. Something inside it made a heavy scraping sound. Spofforth stood up. “Now go,” he said.
And the clerk walked out of the court with his gait perfectly normal.
Spofforth turned and faced the judge again. The judge was cleaner now, but a bit streaked and rumpled.
“I call the court to session,” Spofforth said, just as our Civics class had taught us any citizen could do. They had never said anything about robots doing it, though. They had told us how important courts were for protecting our sacred rights to Privacy and Individuality, and how helpful a judge could be, but you somehow got the idea that it was a good idea to stay away from courts altogether.
The judge’s head came awake, although the rest of him remained motionless. “Who calls the court?” he said, in a deep, grave voice.
“I am a Make Nine robot,” Spofforth said quietly, “programmed for Detection and so empowered by the Government of North America.”
The rest of the judge woke up at that. He adjusted his robe, ran fingers through his grayish hair, then placed his chin in his hand and said, “The court is in session. What is the citizen robot’s request?”
Citizen robot? I had never heard that term before.
“A criminal case, Judge,” Spofforth said. “The defendant will give his name.” He turned to me. “Say your name, title, and place of residence.” And then, nodding toward the Truth Hole, “Be careful.”
I had almost forgotten about the Truth Hole. I avoided looking at it and said carefully, “My name is Paul Bentley. I am Professor of Mental Arts at Southeast Ohio University and my official residence is at Professor House on campus. Currently I live at the Arts Library of New York University, where I am temporarily employed by the Dean of Faculties.” I did not know whether I should say that Spofforth was the dean I worked for, but I did not.
“Very good, son,” the judge said. He looked at Spofforth. “What is the criminal charge?”
“There are three charges,” Spofforth said. “Cohabitation, Reading, and the Teaching of Reading.”
The judge looked at him blankly. “What is Reading?” he said.
Spofforth said nothing for a moment. Then he said, “You are a Make Seven, designed in the Fourth Age. Your Legal Program would not contain the charge. Consult your archives.”
“Yes,” the judge said. He flipped a switch on the arm of his huge chair and a voice somewhere said, “This is the Archives of Law for North America,” and the judge said, “Is there a civil crime called Reading? And is it a different crime to teach the first crime?”
The archives voice was a long time replying. I had never heard a computer take so long. Or maybe it was merely the way I felt. Finally the voice came back and said, “Reading is the subtle and thorough sharing of ideas and feelings by underhanded means. It is a gross invasion of Privacy and a direct violation of the Constitutions of the Third, Fourth, and Fifth ages. The Teaching of Reading is equally a crime against Privacy and Personhood. One to five years on each count.”
The judge switched off the computer. Then he said, “This is clearly a grave business, young man. And you are charged with Cohabitation also.” Then, to Spofforth, “With what has he
cohabited? Man, woman, robot, or beast?”
“With a woman. They have lived together for seven weeks.”
The judge nodded and turned to me. “That is not as grave as the other, young man. But it is a serious risking of Individuality and Personhood and it has been known often to lead to far more serious behavior.”
“Yes, Judge,” I said. I started to say that I was sorry, but I realized just in time that I was not at all sorry—just frightened. I could have lost a finger.
“Is there anything else?” the judge asked Spofforth.
“No.”
The judge looked at me. “Take your hand from the Honesty Regulator and rise and face the court.”
I took my hand out of the Truth Hole and stood.
“How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?” the judge said.
No longer having my hand in the box, I could have lied. But then I supposed my hand would be put back in if I said “not guilty” and we proceeded to have a trial. And, indeed, I have found out from another prisoner here that that is exactly the case. Almost everyone pleads guilty.
I looked at the judge and said, “Guilty.”
“The court commends your honesty,” the judge said. “You are sentenced to six years in the North American Penitentiary, at hard labor for the first two years.” The judge lowered his head slightly and looked at me sternly. “Come forward,” he said.
I walked up to his chair. He rose, slowly, and then reached out his arms. His large hands, one still with the green stain, grasped my shoulders. I felt something stinging my skin, like a drug in-jection. And I went unconscious.
I awoke in this prison.
That is all I can write today. My writing hand and arm ache from what I have already written. Besides, it is late and I must do physical work tomorrow.
DAY NINETY
My room—or “cell”—at the prison is not much bigger than a small thought bus, but it is comfortable and private. I have a bed, a chair, a lamp, and a TV wall with a small library of recordings. The only recording I have played so far is of a dance-and-exercise program, but I did not feel like dancing and took the BB out of the holder before the program was finished.
