Level 7

by Mordecai Roshwald

  This gives an ironical twist to ‘Know Thy Level’ “Don’t bother about other worlds,” the title seems to say. “Know about the only one you’ll ever live in.”

  APRIL 7

  An extraordinary thing happened in the lounge today. Usually people there form small groups of two or three, talking quietly with each other, and often hardly speaking at all. This time the picture was different. One man—I was told later that he was a philosopher, Ph-107—was standing and talking, vigorously and persuasively, while all the rest listened in silence, sitting or standing around.

  The scene was most unusual. Not only had I never observed it on Level 7 before, but I do not remember coming across informal public speech-making like this up above either. It was like a return to the old oratory. In ancient city-states people must have talked, and listened, in that way.

  Strange as it may seem, the subject of the man’s speech was Democracy—Democracy on Level 7, to be precise.

  The topic seemed to fascinate his audience. Even P-867, who likes talking herself, was absorbed and hardly noticed me. Other people drifted into the room from time to time while the philosopher was speaking, and all their conversations died as they were drawn into the rapt circle of listeners.

  Ph-107’s thesis went something like this.

  Democracy, he said, is the rule of all over all. To make it practicable, however, men have always found it necessary to compromise: to follow the decisions of the majority. And as the actual ruling power must perforce be in the hands of a very few people chosen as the representatives of the majority, it has been possible for some cynics to maintain that real democracy can never work. It is always an élite which rules.

  To forestall such objections, people have tried to limit the power of the élite by devising impersonal machinery of government such as laws, constitutions, principles. The rule of law, as opposed to the rule of people, has been the basis of democracy from time immemorial.

  All right, the cynic will reply, but the rule of laws and constitutions and so forth remains, ultimately, the rule of some people—the people who devised them, in this or past ages. Principles cannot invent themselves. And when all the rules have been laid down they still have to be applied and interpreted by lawyers, judges, politicians—by people.

  These objections, said Ph-107, cannot be disregarded. They have formed a valid criticism of every form of democracy which has existed—until today. Now, for the first time in the history of mankind, perfect, absolute democracy is coming into being: democracy on Level 7.

  As we gathered yesterday from the talk about communications, there is no personal authority here. One does not have to salute anybody. “We obey only impersonal commands,” Ph-107 cried with enthusiasm, thumping one fist into the palm of his other hand. “We acknowledge only the authority of the loudspeaker—the impersonal, the supra-personal personification of all of us.

  “This is,” he wound up, “the ultimate logical form for democracy to take: purged of personal elements, refined until the quintessence, the very abstraction, is all that remains. Democracy on Level 7 is the only true democracy, not only in the world today, but in the whole of human history.”

  For a few moments after he had finished there was silence: “Surely somebody must be sitting at the other end of the loudspeaker and giving the orders?”

  Ph-107’s answer was startling: “What proof have you of that? Perhaps it’s only a tape! And even if it’s a living person it doesn’t matter, for he’s completely anonymous and so represents us all. Think of folk art and folk songs: at some time somebody must have created them, but their anonymity makes them both the expression and the possession of the people.”

  At this he smiled triumphantly, and then added: “Any more questions?”

  It seemed that somebody—it was a woman this time—was not altogether happy about his reasoning. “Do you imply,” she asked, “that the rule of the loudspeaker, just because it’s impersonal, must therefore be the rule of the majority and not of an élite?”

  “Not merely of the majority,” came the philosopher’s ready reply. “It is the rule of all. Don’t we all, implicitly or explicitly, agree with each command we receive? Isn’t each order the most sensible one which could be given, in the present circumstances? Anyone can, if he tries, find the good reason behind every instruction. And when you’ve discovered the reason, you must agree that the loudspeaker has given the very order which you yourself would have given if the decision had been yours.” He smiled sweetly at the woman who had asked the question, and then around at his circle of listeners. “Is there anybody here who can give me one single example of a command with which he or she disagrees?”

  “The command to go down to Level 7,” I felt like saying. But I realised that this order was given before we got here, and so did not qualify—not that the argument would have served any useful purpose anyway.

  So, ‘in the present circumstances’, I said nothing.

  The speaker seemed to have carried his point, for nobody had any more objections or questions for him to answer before the loudspeaker announced that our time in the lounge was up; whereupon, of our own free will, and therefore democratically, we left. Ph-107 alone stayed behind in the room—apparently to repeat his speech to the next lot of people. I thought that, in the present circumstances, this would be most salutary. And of course the loudspeaker must have agreed with me and given the appropriate instructions to Ph-107.

  APRIL 9

  I have been busier than usual for the last few days—longer on duty, because X-117 is sick. I do not know what is the matter with him. His room-mate says it is something ‘psychological’. And I find my spare time passes more quickly too—talking, arguing about things with X-107, listening to the ‘Know Thy Level’ talks.

  The talks are disappointingly boring, though. Today we were given a thorough explanation of our diet. I did not listen at all attentively—a talk about a tasteless diet does not make the meals any more appetising.

  One thing I did learn from this talk was that our food takes the form it does, not only because of the lack of space for storage, but also to suit the peculiar living conditions of Level 7. It contains all the necessary calories, vitamins, minerals and so forth. It is unflavored in order to prevent excessive appetite, which would be undesirable: people would want more than their carefully calculated ration; and, if they got it, they would put on weight, and then their health would suffer because of the lack of opportunities for exercise. Due consideration has been given to the problems of digestion, the prevention of stomach troubles, and so on—I think the pills we get at lunch-time have something to do with it. Back on the surface I never suffered from stomach trouble, but even so I must confess I was surprised how easily my stomach took to the new food (or lack of food) down here.

  I suppose all this information was not self-evident, and that the nutrition experts have done a splendid job of work. But the talk about it was boring.

  Yesterday’s talk was even more tedious, in fact I cannot even remember what it was about. No doubt it too contrived to suggest that we were living in the best of all possible ways.

  Complete self-sufficiency, thanks to our wonderful scientists—and all enjoyed under perfect democracy, according to Ph-107. What could be better?

  But no sunshine.

  I wonder what put that into my head again. It is a pity there is no ingredient in the food to make me forget it. Even the science of nutrition seems to have its limits.

  APRIL 10

  In the lounge today P-867 mentioned that her fellow-psychologist was treating a very interesting case. “It’s a certain officer who has a very important function,” she said, obviously hoping to intrigue me and get me talking. “Though of course,” she added with an arch smile, “everybody has a vital job on Level 7.”

  As it happened, her remark did interest me, because it sounded as if the patient might be the sick PBX officer. I described him and she confirmed that this was indeed the man.

 
I cannot say I had got to know X-117 at all well. When he was off duty he kept mostly to the room he shares with X-137, opposite ours, and I had hardly exchanged more than a few words with him before he went sick. But what made his case interesting for me was not his personality but his function. He had been doing exactly the same job as myself, and so besides feeling a mild esprit de corps inspired by the illness of my fellow button-pusher I was curious to know just what had happened to him. I was also wondering how serious his illness was, because while he is away I am on duty for eight instead of six hours each day.

  P-867 saw that she had aroused my interest, and started supplying information at once.

  The trouble with X-117, she maintained, was that he was a bad choice for Level 7. He really should not have been here at all. One of the essential conditions of selection for work down here, irrespective of what form the work would take, was that the candidate should have no strong personal attachment to anybody remaining on earth. For that reason the selectors excluded not only married persons, but also anybody who was at all close to parents, children or friends of either sex. “It’s one more way of making sure that people down here are psychologically self-sufficient,” she said.

  My own recollections bear out what she said. I remember being asked at great length, during one of the interviews prior to my selection for PBX training, what family and friends I had, and what were my feelings toward them. At the time I assumed that the questions were aimed at seeing whether I was safe from the security angle. Fortunately (though I would have said unfortunately if I had known what the questions really meant) I had no strong family ties and no intimate friendships.

  P-867 told me that she too was a self-sufficient person—what some laymen would call a lonely person—and so she too was considered suitable for Level 7. According to her, however, the selectors did not depend entirely on direct information about social relationship. The facts supplied by the person being interviewed were supplemented by indirect psychological evidence. The candidate told the selectors about his past and present relationships. But by various questions which were included in the long psychological tests (concerning the purpose of which the candidate knew nothing) the interviewers also found out about his propensity to form relationships in the future. The training would have been wasted if they had chosen a person who happened to be unattached but was basically sociable, for he might have formed some close attachment while he was a trainee and so made himself quite unsuitable for transference to Level 7.

  In spite of the care taken over these tests, they seem to have slipped up over X-117. According to P-867, the man is not psychologically self-sufficient. True, he severed all contact with his parents as a boy and became independent at the age of fifteen—there was some long-standing family discord which made him leave home as soon as he could. In every other respect too he seemed just the man for Level 7. But now he is showing symptoms of an attachment for his mother!

  “In terms of psychology this is quite a simple case,” P-867 assured me. “A neurotic regression to childhood brought on by the stress of new conditions. But,” she added, “the psychologist who tested him up there should never have made such a terrible mistake. It was his job to weed out people like that and to find types immune to such neurotic tendencies. We just can’t afford to have sociable people on Level 7.” (Smirk and giggle.)

  The time was up and I was happy to leave the lounge. I felt sorry for X-117, but at the same time I envied him. There he was, suffering, perhaps going off his head—but on account of an emotional attachment to his mother, to another human being. I might miss the sunshine and spend hours brooding about that, but I never lost sleep over a person up there. I suddenly realised how much poorer I was than my fellow-officer in his misery. I, along with P-867 and probably everybody else on Level 7, was psychologically self-sufficient. My well-being depended hardly at all on the presence of anyone else. Most likely I was incapable of love; and so was everyone else here, except for X-117. And therefore I was just the person to live here.

  Now I feel sorry for myself. I am sitting here alone at the desk and probably do not need—not much, at least—any company. But I wish I did. Why can I not care more for other people?—people up there or people down here, it does not matter which. It is as if my soul were deformed, or part of it has been amputated.

  I suppose it is just as well I was made the way I am. If we all felt the way X-117 feels, this place would by now be one great lunatic asylum, all patients and no attendants.

  Level 7 could not possibly fulfil its function, it could not exist. It is obviously best as it is.

  But I wish I could pity X-117 more than I do.

  APRIL 11

  Am I capable, or am I not capable, of pitying other people? Am I, or am I not able to develop a genuine friendship, to love somebody, to care for another person with all my heart?

  This business has been plaguing me since yesterday. I do not want to be a monster, and a man without emotions is a monster. What is the difference between me and an electronic brain? It can calculate far better, work more efficiently; it makes no mistakes. It cannot get fond of anybody. Neither can I.

  But I can pity myself and torment myself, and an electronic gadget cannot do that. There’s the difference.

  Level 7. The unsocial society. Community of self-pitying gadgets, hive of monsters.

  Are we really monsters, or merely miserable creatures who deserve pity? There I go—self-pity again! But I did say ‘are we’, which may be evidence of sociability in me after all.

  How deep does it go? Oh, I wish I could stop fretting about it. If I were a real machine I should be much happier.

  A happy gadget! I had better stop writing for today and listen to some music, if all I can produce is such absolute nonsense. Perhaps I am heading for a nervous breakdown myself.

  Something for the psychologists to think about: Can a man become neurotic through worrying about his inability to be neurotic?

  APRIL 13

  I am not finding the ‘Know Thy Level’ talks as interesting as I thought I would. Today they tried to explain the system of personal identification on Level 7. Everybody’s ‘name’ ends with the digit 7, because we live on Level 7. The letters at the beginning refer to functions, which everybody knew anyway; and the other two figures have some more complicated explanation which I did not try to understand. No doubt there is a system behind it, as with everything else down here.

  When the talk was over X-107 tried to discuss with me the reason for calling each other by letters and numbers instead of personal or family names—a practice which we were persuaded to adopt back at the training camp, so it comes quite naturally on Level 7. The reason behind it, he thought, was that the old names would have nostalgic associations with life on the surface and so would make it harder for us to get adjusted to our new existence.

  It may well be so, but I was not interested in discussing it. What did interest me was X-107’s efforts to make me talk in spite of my evident lack of enthusiasm, because he realised I was upset about something; as he had done on previous occasions. Which must mean that he felt some concern about me. And if he is not entirely unsociable, then perhaps my own case is not so hopeless either.

  My speculations engaged me so, I hardly listened to what he was saying. Suppose we were not entirely unsociable, I thought, only less sociable than most people—people up there. Suppose the difference were of this sort—one of degree, not of kind—well, the implications would be enormous. I might at least be capable of liking somebody.

  As the saying goes: ‘If the fire doesn’t boil the kettle, it may stop it freezing.’ Perhaps X-117 is not the only sociable fish to slip through the psychologists’ net.

  APRIL 14

  I see that my last entry ended with a slightly envious reference to X-117. But it seems that his sociable tendencies are bringing him nothing but more trouble. P-867 is now participating in his therapy, and she told me today that his condition is getting more serious. He cannot
move his fingers of his right hand.

  She says there is nothing physically wrong with the hand: the paralysis is a clear symptom of hysteria. And she has a theory to explain it. At least, she has the modesty to call it a theory. Knowing her, I am sure she thinks it is the only possible explanation.

  My fellow-officer, she says, must as a child have used his right hand in quest of pleasures which were strictly forbidden by his parents. Those urges became repressed, but they remained a powerful factor in his unconscious mind. The repressive control will not let them out even now, so the urges express themselves through the symptoms of paralysis. X-117 really enjoys his paralysis, according to P-867’s strange explanation, because it is unconsciously associated with the repressed urges. But these symptoms are so remote from their true origin that the repressive control cannot recognise them and so lets them be.

  In fact, X-117 has his own, seemingly ‘rational’ explanation for his sickness. What he says is that his paralysis is a punishment from ‘above’ for his readiness to push buttons and destroy the world. He keeps talking about this punishment, which he considers just. “Obviously,” said P-867 today, “he doesn’t want to be cured. His job on Level 7, pushing buttons, is too strongly associated in his mind with the activities which his parents told him were wicked.”