Low-opped.
Low-Opped!
Movius pounded his pillow. It was the sense of drabness, eternal drabness. Already he wished for something different. Anything at all, as long as it was different. This was the attraction of the secret Thrill Parlours, the scattered, clandestine schools of the outlawed Separatist Party and their philosophy of Individualism.
Each Man A Separate Individual.
EMASI!
“Individualism in a standardized world? Impossible!”
But the initials blossomed on sidewalks, on walls. EMASI! Scrawled inside a stylized side view of a skunk with its tail raised. Stamped in the middle of a sheet of paper which a Com-Burs secretary picked from the fresh stack in the box. Carved on the underside of a toilet seat. And once, just once, painted with an evil-smelling, sticky, tarry substance on The Coor’s bedroom walls.
They were still investigating that one.
There were times when the world seemed full of Seps.
Movius wondered if Navvy was a Sep. He turned on his back, stared up at the ceiling. So close. The walls. So close. A cell after his Upper Rank apartment. A brown-walled cell. A Warren.
Was Navvy a Sep? It would make sense. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Navvy scrawling EMASI! Somewhere, on a wall. On the seat of the Liaitor’s new suit.
Movius sat bolt upright. Great Roper! Could that have been Navvy? Slowly, thoughtfully, he eased himself back to the pillow.
The afternoon wore on, a grey progression of bitter thoughts and unanswered questions. Who did this to me? Glass?
He became aware of a new sensation, one he had to think far back in memory to recall. Hunger. He glanced at his wristwatch. Six. Serving time. The bed creaked as he stood up. He felt stiff, as though he’d spent a full hour on the wrestling mat with Okashi.
The Warren dining room was a place of droning conversation, clattering crockery, steaming odors of pallid foods. His tray was shoved back to him with the Standard Thursday Evening Meal. Movius carried the food to an isolated table in the corner. Fried mush, mashed potatoes with synthetic gravy containing vegetable minerals and vitamins. Something that passed for coffee and in a cracked cup. A bowl of pale green jelly substance for dessert.
Movius was aware of the eyes following him, of the unasked questions. The little silences. He picked up his fork. The first bite brought back another memory of his father, the bitter father. “Swill! Make a man’s world flat and insipid enough and he won’t care if you send him to an early grave!”
In spite of his hunger, Movius had to force himself to eat. He told himself it was the lack of spices to which he had become accustomed in the privileged dining rooms, that the food was the same. He knew it wasn’t true. In spite of all the Bu-Blah shouting to the contrary, he knew it wasn’t the same food. The Upper Ranks might be eating mashed potatoes and gravy tonight, but there’d be butter in the potatoes, real meat in the gravy. The fried mush might contain chicken and fresh vegetables. The coffee would be real coffee and the dessert would have fresh fruit in it.
Privileges.
How many generations had counted good foods a privilege?
He was finishing the mashed potatoes when a man bent over his table. The man exuded a steaming odor of perspiration.
“New here, ain’t you?” He touched Movius’ lapel. “What’s a Third Ranker doing eating in a Warren Dining Room? Get caught out late?”
They were never as bold as this in the streets. Only among their own, with that solid feeling of approval, of common hate behind them.
“I live here,” said Movius.
“Oh?” The man’s eyes were two tiny ink dots, bird eyes, unwinking. “What’s a Third Ranker doing living in a Warren?”
“I’m back where I started,” said Movius.
The man reached out, grasped Movius’ lapel, jerked it. “Then get rid of that damn’ T, mister. An’ put some dye on that fancy color. You ain’t no bettern’ the rest of us!”
“Leave him alone, Mike.”
Movius looked up to his left. The speaker was a giant of a woman in a cook’s uniform and carrying a long cleaver. “He just come in today,” she said. “Low-opped this morning.”
“Keep your nose out of this, Marie Cotton,” said the man. “We know he was just low-opped.”
She leaned toward him. “You want a little something extra in your mashed potatoes? Some glass, maybe?” She held the cleaver under his chin. “Some of your own gore?”
The man drew back.
The cook stared at him, pressing him back with her eyes until he returned to his seat, face red. She turned to Movius. “Our seamstress is just down the hall from you. She’ll do that job on your lapels for some extras from your rations or some loose credits.” The woman turned, marched toward the kitchen, suddenly stopped and announced to the room, “We got a peaceful Warren here. We ain’t never had no trouble and we ain’t gonna have none.”
Memory came back to Movius out of his childhood. The cooks ran the Warrens. District Housing appointed managers, of course, but tenants laughed at a manager’s orders. A manager was just one step above an LP. Look at’im puttin’ on airs! A cook, though—she could make your food bitter, put something in it to make you sick, give you short portions. You didn’t cross a cook.
Just one element of the situation bothered Movius. Why had the cook defended him? A fresh low-opp should have been fair game. He took his tray to the wash dump, returned to his room. The question about the book was put out of his mind. It was almost time to follow the instructions given by Navvy’s sister. If he was going to follow them. What was her name? Gladys? No. Grace. That was it, Grace. He remembered Navvy talking about her and about their father. The old man had a peculiar first name. Quilliam, Quilliam London. He’d been a professor of some kind once until his classes were low-opped.
Her instructions said he was to go to the Carhouse, see this Clancy. Well, why not? At least it was something different. And Navvy was right this morning. (Damn his secretive manner.)
The dusk flowed with after-dinner noises of children, giggling couples, cat-calls. A man standing across the street watched Movius’ retreating back, threw down a cigaret, turned and followed. Soon he picked up a companion. They strolled along, not talking like the other strollers.
Movius turned a corner, saw a long car facing him, dim in the gathering darkness. The car headlights turned on, blinding him and in that instant something sharp bit into his arm. A needle! Unconsciousness swept over his mind. He didn’t even feel the hands support him, ease him into the car. Just time for one brief thought: I should have been more caref …
It was a cell, barren of everything except a hard pallet. Movius opened his eyes, felt the pallet beneath him, absorbed a first awareness of his surroundings. The memory came back slowly—the street, the headlights, the stinging in his arm. He jerked upright, stared around him. The cell was about eight feet long, six wide, eight high. No doors or windows. That was odd. And the walls, a disturbing shade of red. He swung his feet to the floor, rubbed his arm where the needle had punctured it. Who?
The answer came almost immediately. An end wall swung back, admitting a pinch-faced man carrying a canvas chair. Movius recognized him immediately: Nathan O’Brien, chief of Bu-Psych. What does Bu-Psych want with me? And O’Brien? Movius remembered him as a man who always held something in reserve, never fully committing himself.
O’Brien opened his canvas chair, sat down opposite Movius, calculated, deliberate movements. The dark eyes snapped up at Movius. “Hello, Dan.”
What does he expect me to say? Hello, Nate? Movius stared back silently, waiting.
“Sorry if we’ve inconvenienced you in any way.”
“I’ll bet you are,” said Movius. He decided he had enough hate left over for O’Brien, another part of the system that had degraded him.
“We had to do it that way,” said O’Brien. “Two of the Coor’s men were following you. No time to explain. They were waiting for a quiet stretch in which to pick y
ou up.”
Movius jerked his head around, looked into O’Brien’s eyes. “Pick me up? Why would the Coor want me? I thought he was just going to send me off to the ALP.”
O’Brien rubbed at a greying temple. “I see you already know. And why is he doing it? Let’s say that he likes to demonstrate that he can do away with a person and he doesn’t want you running out on his plans. You happen to be a … well, an inconvenience. It’s a much greater demonstration of power when you use violent methods on a mere inconvenience.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“That’s your privilege, Dan.”
Movius felt the anger rising in him. He raised his voice. “How could he do it? Can he predict the opp? And if so, how?” He almost shouted the last words.
O’Brien spoke in a quiet, even voice. “The Coor could predict the opp several ways. He and the rest of Com-Burs—myself included—can frame the question to make the answer practically a foregone conclusion. When The Coor wants to be absolutely certain, he sends the question out with a code number held only by a selection of people who know how to answer things his way.”
“He can’t bypass the Selector,” said Movius, his voice more subdued.
“Do you really believe that?” asked O’Brien.
Movius shrugged. What could he believe? As sure as Roper, Glass had made a point of telling him the answer to the question was known before it should have been known.
O’Brien said, “You ought to see my list of district governors, city mayors, managers, their assistants and the families of all of them, who have special numbers manually filed in the Selector. Who ever questions the operator of the Selector when he comes back and says, ‘This is the code number?’”
“I suppose the question on my department was sent through on one of those numbers.”
O’Brien nodded. “Number 089. In view of the question, it was hardly necessary, but The Coor evidently wanted to be certain.”
Movius caught himself taking short, jerky breaths, fought to control his nerves. “How do they keep a secret like that? So many people!”
“There are two answers,” said O’Brien. “They don’t keep it a secret. I’ll wager you’ve heard it and …”
“Yes, but just a rumor.”
“What else is a good secret? It’s no secret. I know it. Lots of other people know it. You know it. The other answer is that they do keep it a secret. They …”
Movius held up his hand. “You just said …”
“I know. But it is kept a secret from the main body of the LP. The Seps try to spread the word, but who believes the Seps? Those harebrains! Besides, believing Seps can be dangerous. How are you going to believe something when you don’t listen to it in the first place?”
Movius rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. How indeed? He said, “I believe it.”
“But look what it took to make you believe it,” said O’Brien. He sounded exasperated, like a teacher with a dense student. “It’s the flaw in their armor, of course. Get a man angry enough, bitter enough, he’ll believe almost anything.”
Movius said, “But if you keep him from getting angry—keep him apathetic and his stomach filled, he won’t even listen. He’ll be too tired.”
In a pedantic voice, O’Brien said, “Hunger elicits the first anger response of the baby. So, as you say, keep him from being hungry.”
“Or convince him he knows everything already,” said Movius.
“That, too.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” said Movius.
“Oh, yes, our little visit.” O’Brien’s attitude became more brisk. “Movius, The Coor wanted your fiancée and he needed to demonstrate to … uh, others that he has the power of life and death. That is why you were low-opped.”
“That’s still no answer to my question.”
“One moment,” said O’Brien. “Today, you saw Glass with your fiancée.”
Movius pounded a fist into the palm of his hand. How did O’Brien know who I saw today? “You haven’t answered my question,” Movius repeated.
“Please be patient. As you know, an order will go out tomorrow morning for you to report to the ALP. This is mostly to demonstrate that such … uh, accidents can be arranged. And also gets you out of the sight of the lovely Miss Lang. Not that I imagine such drastic measures were needed to gain the same end. There are other reasons.”
Now we’re getting to it, thought Movius. He said, “Such as?”
“You were a Third Ranker. Were you aware that you were the only man in government above the Fifth Rank who started from the LP? You climbed up there in twelve years. Under this form of government, with so many more places needed for the large families of the … uh, High-Opps, that is a dangerous rate of climb. Dangerous to the men it might displace. I believe some of them voiced their fears.”
“The same opportunity open to all!” said Movius. Just some more of the old official pap. Eat your vitalac, little dear, if you want to grow up and be Coordinator. Dangerous rate of climb. Watch out you don’t eat too much vitalac, dear. You might become dangerous. “So they send me off to die in the ALP,” he said.
“Mortality rate of seventeen point four,” said O’Brien in his precise manner. “With a little pushing in the right place, a promise of reprieve to someone else in the penalty service, the mortality rate becomes one-hundred percentum for one Daniel Movius.”
He still hasn’t answered my question, thought Movius. Mr. Bu-Psych wants something from me. He said, “What do I do now?”
“That depends on several things,” said O’Brien. “In about six weeks a second work order will come through. This will be the legal one and it will put you in Bu-Trans.”
“Why bother with a work order for a dead man?”
“To cover up the false order. That … uh, accidental order would be turned up, somebody in Bu-Labor, somebody inconvenient, would be low-opped.”
Movius thought, If I could hide until that one comes through, wouldn’t that be embarrassing to them? Wouldn’t it, though? He said, “Is there a way to hide me?”
“Perhaps.”
What does he mean perhaps?
“The second work order is for Bu-Trans,” said O’Brien as though he had not already made that point. “Warren Gerard put some special requirements into the sorter today. He’s prepared to wait because he half suspects the order can’t be filled. He doesn’t know that your card already has come out of the sorter, fitting his demands more precisely than he could have expected.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” said Movius. He stood up, looked down on O’Brien.
“Sit down,” said O’Brien. “You have to hear me out.”
“Oh, I have to hear you out.” Movius felt himself breathing too rapidly. He thought, I’ve been swallowing everything this little pipsqueak says. How do I know what his game is?
“Would you prefer the ALP?” asked O’Brien.
“You haven’t told me what your game is,” said Movius.
“I will, though. Sit down and hear what I have to say. Believe me, it’s important.”
Movius returned to the pallet. “All right, but shorten it.”
“As briefly as possible.” O’Brien scratched at the corner of an eye. “Gerard is in a very shaky position at the top of Bu-Trans. His Achilles heel is his Department CR-14, Confidential Routing as it is listed in the table of organization. This department is the government’s top secret spying group.”
“In Bu-Trans?” Movius’ whole face showed his disbelief.
“Who ever looks at a Bu-Trans truck?” asked O’Brien. “It goes about its business and no one notices. For that matter, who ever gives a second glance to the workmen with such a vehicle?”
“What’s worrying Gerard?”
“The Coor’s nephew, Rafe Newton, is director of CR-14. The Coor and Loren Addington …”
“Mr. Police?”
“The same. Only we call him Mr. Bu-Con. These two are set to replace Gerard with Newton.”
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“What does this mean to me?”
O’Brien acted like a man about to unfold a masterpiece. He spread out his hands. “Gerard’s requirements are for a man to clean out the vipers in CR-14.”
“And I fit this billing?”
“That’s right.”
“Why are they after Gerard?”
“Next to The Coor, Gerard is the most powerful man in government. At least potentially. He has the biggest organization, larger even than Bu-Con, but not larger than Bu-Con and several of the others upon whom The Coor is depending. It is what was once known as a ‘balance of power’. It is a very delicate …”
“All right, let’s get to the point.” Again Movius lifted himself to this feet. “What is it that you want, O’Brien?”
O’Brien looked up at Movius, put a finger to a greying temple, scratched. “You are the direct type, aren’t you, Dan? That’s good. I want you to spy on the spies … for me.”
Movius found himself chuckling without humor. “Up here at the top you’re just one big happy family.”
“You could say that.” O’Brien got to his feet. “Do you need time to come to a decision?”
“What choice do I have? If I don’t throw in with you, I go to the ALP.” Movius shrugged. “Where do I hide?”
“Good Gallup!” said O’Brien. “I’m not going to hide you.”
“But you …”
“There was a woman waiting for you at the Warren today. She …”
“Is she another of your spies?”
“Her? Oh, my, no. She’s a Separatist. For precisely the same reasons which make you valuable to Gerard and myself and dangerous to the government, the Separatists are seeking to enlist your services. They are in a better position to hide you since I will be suspect.”
“This woman will hide me?”
“She and her friends.”
“Does she have many friends?”
“Grace London? She’s a nurse at the district infirmary in the Warren where she lives. Whole building’s subversive. Good Seps all.”
“I suppose I repay them by spying on them.”
“You needn’t bother.” O’Brien moved toward the wall which had opened to admit him.
Four Unpublished Novels Page 4
