Level 7

by Mordecai Roshwald

  Then, without any visible transition (as frequently happens in dreams), a change came over the people. I suddenly noticed that their faces and hands were a yellowish colour. The yellow turned to brown, and now they were sinking down on the floor, their flesh changing into lifeless rubber. They lay all around me, still moving their limbs; but gradually their movements became slower and slower… were hardly perceptible… looked like the last movements of crushed worms. Then they stopped! Now I was surrounded by grotesque brown rubber dummies.

  I raised my hands to cover my eyes, and my heart stood still as I saw that they were yellow. Slowly their colour darkened to brown….

  I woke up at this point and was spared the rest.

  Or was I? Was this nightmare just a dream? Had it not an element of real premonition in it? Was it not a prophecy?

  I know it is absurd to explain dreams in such a way.

  But this one seems so closely connected with our times and situation that it weighs heavily on my mind.

  That empty hole where the huge buildings used to be, those bodies that looked like rubber, their last worm-like movements, my hands turning brown….

  If only I had a God to cry to!

  MAY 2

  The dream has had a bad effect on me. I am upset again and my spirits are as low as ever. I told P-867 so today and described the dream to her. She is a psychologist, after all.

  She said I was showing quasi-hysterical symptoms. She thought that those mythological stories of R-747’s and mine were upsetting my emotional stability. There was a connection, she suggested, between the mushroom in my story and my nightmare. I had to admit she might be right. “But the roots lie deeper,” she added. “There’s some more fundamental anxiety in you somewhere. It may be due, partly at least, to the fact that you don’t lead a normal life for a healthy man of your age.”

  Does she want to scare me into marriage? If I could be sure that marriage would help me over my ups and downs, or rather my downs and downs, I would marry right away. I would even marry P-867, if a psychologist mate is the best sort to have.

  I wish somebody could advise me about that. P-867 could, if she were not personally involved.

  I really do not know what to do, but I am sure I cannot take many more downs. There must be a limit to mental suffering, just as there is a limit to the distance humans can dig into the earth. Seven levels down is the physical limit. How many can the spirit endure?

  MAY 3

  X-117 came back today. He looks emaciated and pale, but behaves quite normally. He is rather silent. Nobody asks him about the treatment.

  I asked P-867 about it. She told me it was psychoanalysis, combined with some drugs which speed up the therapy a lot. She said X-117 is perfectly all right now and can fulfil his duties.

  But I am sure there is something different about him. I mean that besides losing a bit of weight and colour he has changed in some way. I told P-867 I thought so, but she laughed at the idea and said it was just a layman’s imagination. She added, wistfully: “You haven’t been looking so well yourself lately.”

  She is probably right. I wonder if I shall be the next patient of P-867 and her colleagues. I would prefer to be her husband, if that would spare me being her patient.

  There will be no need to be either if only I can get rid of the gloomy thoughts which creep into my mind all the time.

  MAY 4

  Today I tried to lose myself again in the mental game of inventing new myths for the coming generation on Level 7. I thought about it a good deal and then discussed it with R-747 in the lounge.

  While I am busy speculating and talking about such things I forget my own predicament. Maybe it is dangerous to escape from reality in this way—P-867 would certainly say it is—but the practice helps me, at least while I am indulging in it.

  I suggested to R-747 a few general principles which she might keep in mind when she is creating new myths and stories. Here are some of them.

  High is bad, low is good. Open space is harmful; enclosed space is beneficial. Vast distances are the product of a sick or perverse imagination; being content with the physical limits of one’s level is normal and admirable. The quest for variety in life is wicked; sticking to one’s job and being satisfied with little entertainment is good citizenship.

  R-747 thought these principles would be quite helpful and said she would use them when she wrote some more stories.

  P-867 interrupted us as usual. I cannot get rid of her during my discussions with R-747.

  MAY 5

  Last night I had another ‘atomic’ dream.

  I was standing with my parents on the corner of two streets in my home town. The sky above us was full of strange flying objects which, though they did not look like conventional aircraft or missiles, had obviously something to do with atomic warfare. I was watching with particular interest some big spherical objects which floated slowly through the air, surrounded by smaller, swift-moving machines with wings. I was not at all sure what these glittering little machines were doing. I had the vague impression that their swift flight around the big balls was for the purpose of protecting us from them, but my mind was more taken up with the spectacle which these various objects presented—they resembled a cluster of planets floating through space, each one with its satellite moons. But it was clear that this strange universe was man-made; it was too near the earth to be anything else. The big, apparently clumsy spheres—or were they just balloons?—moved slowly over our heads with the little winged objects circling them incessantly. Now they made me think of huge, ponderous bears surrounded by packs of small but alert wolves.

  The sky was brightly lit—it was not clear what time of day it was—and as my gaze wandered farther out into space I noticed for the first time some white tracks in the blue, the sort made by jets at high altitudes. It was as if, while I looked, new forms of life were springing into existence above me. Perhaps ‘life’ is not quite the word, for I knew that the things I was watching were inanimate; but their movements made me think of them as living things. I was standing there staring at them, so fascinated that I had forgotten all about my parents and where we were supposed to be going, when all at once, with a suddenness which I recall with horrid vividness but can find no words to express, the whole scene was blotted out in a blinding flash of light.

  I knew at once that an atomic explosion had taken place over our heads. The corner on which we were standing was rather exposed, and the nearest building big enough to offer any protection was a good fifty yards off. I dashed away towards it, shouting to my parents to follow, even though I knew it was no use. We might have done better to throw ourselves flat on the ground where we stood.

  Next moment I was lying on the ground. I thought: ‘Now I am being killed.’ I knew it as a crystal-clear fact: my death was inevitable and occurring at that very moment. Yet my consciousness was still clear, and I summoned every mental resource in my effort to keep it so. It was purely mental effort, for I was aware of no physical sensations at all. The body seemed to have stopped feeling. But the mental effort was enormous—to be, to be!

  Within that single moment of strain the problem of the immortality of my soul was folded. I was aware of it in my dream very clearly. But I also knew that the outcome of my fight would solve the universal problem of the immortality of the human soul. In fighting my own fight for survival, I fought for the whole of humanity as well.

  I was still fighting when I came out of the dream. And I lay half-awake for some time, trying to decide what the struggle had meant. Had I retained my hold on consciousness after my body had been disintegrated, or had I woken before my physical destruction was complete? I could not decide.

  After a while I woke up completely and gave up my philosophical meditations. It was time to attend to the more practical matters of today. But all day the memory of the dream has kept slipping into my thoughts.

  Am I going to have any more ‘atomic’ dreams, I wonder? Can’t I look forward to peace of mind even
when I am asleep?

  MAY 6

  I am trying to decide on the best cure for my low spirits. Possibly it will have to be a compromise.

  For one thing, I want to carry on my talks with R-747. They may be harmful, but they act as a sort of drug that gives me relief while I am actually taking it. At present the relief does not last long enough, but the process of taking the talk-drug can be stretched. Like chewing-gum.

  On the other hand, marriage might counteract my dreams. If I could stop having ‘atomic’ nightmares without having to give up thinking about myths and things, that would be splendid.

  I think I should take P-867 as my mate. I do not care for her much, admittedly, but perhaps this is an advantage. To like anybody a lot on Level 7 would only lead to trouble. Down here we do not have the facilities for close contact between married couples which people enjoy up on the surface. To be really in love down here would mean daily torments of separation. Up there one hour’s privacy a day for a newlywed couple would be considered cruelty. On Level 7 restricted privacy is a necessity, so the less a person cares for his mate the better.

  That suggests another principle for R-747 to use in her stories: Do not care for other people too much, especially if they belong to your own family. I must tell her that one.

  If I offer to marry P-867 I think she may put less obstacles in the way of my talks with R-747, which is another point in favour of the idea. To make sure, I think I should stipulate it as a condition of the marriage. P-867 is sensible enough to realise that I only talk with R-747 for the sake of the mental pleasure it gives me.

  As my mate, P-867 may be able to help me psychologically without treating me as a patient. I need her professional skill unprofessionally exercised.

  Looking at it all round, I am forced to conclude that P-867 is the best possible match for me in the present circumstances—the circumstances of Level 7, which is the best of all possible worlds.

  Well, perhaps it isn’t—the world, I mean—but the marriage seems all right.

  The very idea of the bargain makes me feel better already.

  MAY 7

  Today I suggested to P-867 that we should get married, but I stressed at the same time that I wanted to be free to talk to R-747 during my half hours in the lounge.

  P-867 promptly accepted both my proposal and the reservation. She seemed happy and wanted us to press the red button together and announce our decision at once. This was all right with me. Now I am waiting for the private loudspeaker to say when the ceremony will take place, and I will finish writing this entry when the message has come through.

  I have received the message:

  “Marriage Service calling X-127. Your marriage with P-867 has been approved. The ceremony will take place today in the Marriage Room at 7 p.m. sharp. Kindly press the red button and confirm that you have received and understood this message.”

  I was just doing so when X-107 walked into the room. He must have guessed from the expression on my face that the message I was acknowledging was no ordinary one, for he smiled and raised a questioning eyebrow. When I told him I was marrying P-867 this very evening, he congratulated me warmly and said he thought I had made a very wise decision.

  I am glad he approves, because of course we shall remain room-mates and I shall still spend many more hours with him than with my future wife—a consoling thought, somehow.

  MAY 8

  Yesterday evening I met P-867 at the appointed time and place, and a couple of minutes later we were out, duly married and with the letters ‘m’ fixed to our identity badges.

  We smiled when we saw how our names had grown, and decided on the spot that between ourselves we would forget the ponderous P-867m and X-127m and call each other P and X for short.

  Then P suggested that we should follow up the official ceremony with an unofficial celebration. We were right in the dining-room, where the second shift was in the middle of its meal and I could not think what P had in mind. She drew me mysteriously into a corner where we would not disturb the diners, fished in her pocket, said: “Here’s how we’ll celebrate,” and produced—a small bar of chocolate.

  It seems that she happened to have this chocolate on her when she was ordered down to Level 7. She had kept it all this time for some special occasion, and now the occasion had arrived. She broke the bar in two and gave me the bigger piece.

  I raised it as if it were a glass and proposed the toast: “To you and me!”

  “To X and P!” she rhymed. Then we ate the chocolate, nibbling bits off and chewing them slowly as if we were sipping at a wine of old and rare vintage.

  This is rather what the experience was like, in fact. We had been down here long enough to forget completely what ordinary food tasted like. The stuff we had grown used to had hardly any flavour, and we ate it automatically and without interest—feeding had become a sort of reflex action at certain hours of the day.

  As a result, the chocolate P produced was like some rich, exotic delicacy to our bored palates, and we both prolonged the eating as long as we could. The chocolate lasted ten minutes; and then we had to part, as the second shift had finished at the table and we were getting in people’s way.

  We do not know our hours of privacy yet, but the loudspeaker will tell us in due course, so there is no need to worry about making dates. The Marriage Service will work out the best time, taking into account our working hours and the requirements of the other married couples.

  I am sure our next meeting will be planned in the best possible way.

  MAY 10

  My honeymoon has had to be postponed. Instead of meeting P, I have just spent forty-eight hours in hospital. It really is funny. I think it is the first amusing thing that has happened since I came down to Level 7.

  My case history is quite simple. After writing that last entry in my diary I went on duty in the Operations Room. I had not been there long before my stomach started to feel bad. Soon the unpleasant sensations became quite a fierce pain, and I decided I should have to do something about it. Such a thing had never happened to me before.

  I pushed the red button and asked for help and instructions. They worked fast. Five minutes later X-117 came into take my place and the loudspeaker told me to go to my room until they came to escort me to the hospital. I hardly had time to stretch out on my bed before two nurses arrived (despite my pains I noticed that one of them wore an ‘m’ and the other did not) and helped me across to the ward. Within a quarter of an hour of having sent my S.O.S., I was tucked up in a hospital bed.

  There was nothing unusual about the ward. It was small, of course, like most of the rooms here, with only five beds beside mine, all of them empty. So I had the lady doctor, M-227m, all to myself. She took my temperature, looked at my tongue, poked me, asked me a couple of questions, and finally told me I had upset my stomach by eating something unsuitable.

  I might have guessed: the chocolate. When I told her I had eaten some she laughed and said: “That’s it. I’m glad there’s nothing wrong with the food you ought to have been eating.” It was not that the chocolate was bad, she explained; but my stomach had grown unused to tackling that sort of food. “You’re already a Level 7 man,” she said. “You can’t digest that kind of thing any more.” Then she added: “By the way, where did you get your chocolate? I wouldn’t mind a piece myself—a very small piece, of course.”

  When I told her that it had been my wedding feast and that it was all gone, she had a good laugh and said: “So you’re suffering from marriage pains! Serves you right! I suppose your bride will be arriving any moment now—she ate some too, didn’t she?”

  But P did not appear. Her digestion must be better than mine. What’s more, she gave me the bigger piece of chocolate.

  The doctor found me some pills which purged my stomach and after that the pains soon wore off. I felt a bit weak and dizzy, though, and still do.

  I was quite sorry to leave the ward this afternoon. It may sound odd, but I really enjoyed being there. The
whole business was so comical: a stomach upset by a chocolate toast after a wedding ceremony, and then a ‘honeymoon’ spent in a hospital bed.

  I enjoyed the pain too. This may sound downright perverse, but it is true. I enjoyed it because it broke the deadening routine. It made me feel that I was still alive, alive to sensations which were felt by people up there on the surface.

  More than that, the pain proved my identity to me in a way that my symbol, X-127m, cannot do. Somebody once said: “I think, therefore I am.” But it seems to me that thinking makes you forget your own personality, it dissolves your individuality in the impersonal universe of spirit. But feeling, feeling an acute pain, tells you that you are. It makes you aware of yourself as nothing else does. There is nothing universal about the feeling of pain; it is the most private of experiences.

  Though I am still weak, my state of physical emptiness is a good one and conducive to meditation. Those pills seem to have purged my mind as well as my body. My depression has gone, I feel much more cheerful. I don’t even want to discuss myths with R-747. For the time being, my addiction to that spiritual drug is cured.

  This is the first occasion on which I have felt really grateful to P. But for her persistent efforts to get me to marry her, and but for her piece of chocolate, I should still be going round in my black mood.

  The pangs of marriage certainly did me good. I only hope it will not be undone by marriage’s other aspects.

  MAY 12

  I am quite well now. And a proper married man too.