by Jack Vance
“You must wait until it is logged. Then you may have it; it is useless to me.”
“I’ll wait,” said Luke between clenched teeth.
With method and deliberation Fedor Miskitman made a final check of the job: inspecting machinery, the teeth of the cutter-head, the nozzles of the spider, the discharge belt. He went to his little desk at the rear of the rotary drill, noted progress, signed expense-account vouchers, finally registered the policy directive on mini-film. Then with a ponderous sweep of his arm, he tendered the yellow sheet to Luke. “What will you do with it?”
“I’ll find who formed this idiotic policy. I’ll tell him what I think of it and what I think of him, to boot.”
Miskitman shook his head in disapproval. “That is not the way such things should be done.”
“How would you do it?” asked Luke with a wolfish grin.
Miskitman considered, pursing his lips, perking his bristling eyebrows. At last with great simplicity of manner he said, “I would not do it.”
Luke threw up his hands, set off down the tunnel. Miskitman’s voice boomed against his back. “You must take the shovel!”
Luke halted. Slowly he faced about, glared back at the hulking figure of the foreman. Obey the policy directive, or be declassified. With slow steps, a hanging head and averted eyes, he retraced his path. Snatching the shovel, he stalked back down the tunnel. His bony shoulder blades were exposed and sensitive, and Fedor Miskitman’s mild blue gaze, following him, seemed to scrape the nerves of his back.
Ahead the tunnel extended, a glossy pale sinus, dwindling back along the distance they had bored. Through some odd trick of refraction alternate bright and dark rings circled the tube, confusing the eye, creating a hypnotic semblance of two-dimensionality. Luke shuffled drearily into this illusory bull’s-eye, dazed with shame and helplessness, the shovel a load of despair. Had he come to this—Luke Grogatch, previously so arrogant in his cynicism and barely concealed Nonconformity? Must he cringe at last, submit slavishly to witless regulations?…If only he were a few places farther up the list! Drearily he pictured the fine incredulous shock with which he would have greeted the policy directive, the sardonic nonchalance with which he would have let the shovel fall from his limp hands…Too late, too late! Now he must toe the mark, must carry his shovel dutifully to the warehouse. In a spasm of rage he flung the blameless implement clattering down the tunnel ahead of him. Nothing he could do! Nowhere to turn! No way to strike back! Organization: smooth and relentless; Organization, massive and inert, tolerant of the submissive, serenely cruel to the unbeliever…Luke came to his shovel and whispering an obscenity snatched it up and half-ran down the pallid tunnel.
He climbed through a manhole, emerged upon the deck of the 1123rd Avenue Hub, where he was instantly absorbed in the crowds trampling between the man-belts, which radiated like spokes, and the various escalators. Clasping the shovel to his chest, Luke struggled aboard the Fontego Man-belt and rushed south, in a direction opposite to that of his dormitory. He rode ten minutes to Astoria Hub, dropped a dozen levels on the Grimesby College Escalator, crossed a gloomy dank area smelling of old rock to a local feeder-belt which carried him to the District 8892 Sewer Maintenance Warehouse.
Luke found the warehouse brightly lit, and the center of considerable activity, with several hundred men coming and going. Those coming, like Luke, carried tools; those going went empty-handed.
Luke joined the line which had formed in front of the tool storeroom. Fifty or sixty men preceded him, a drab centipede of arms, shoulders, heads, legs, the tools projecting to either side. The centipede moved slowly, the men exchanging badinage and quips.
Observing their patience, Luke’s normal irascibility asserted itself. Look at them, he thought, standing like sheep, jumping to attention at the rustle of an unfolding directive. Did they inquire the reason for the order? Did they question the necessity for their inconvenience? No! The louts stood chuckling and chatting, accepting the directive as one of life’s incalculable vicissitudes, something elemental and arbitrary, like the changing of the seasons…And he, Luke Grogatch, was he better or worse? The question burned in Luke’s throat like the aftertaste of vomit.
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 temporary and may shortly be altered. 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 into 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 pom-poms affected by the Velstro technicians.
Between shabby sour-mouthed Luke and this short moony man in the dandy’s coveralls 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 handle of the shovel. “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 check. Elaborately Luke turned to the moon-faced man, tu
cked the check into his breast pocket. “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 moony technical tool operator in the pink and brown coveralls came out of the warehouse behind him, turned 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, 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 at 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 a 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 Lavester 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 Procurement. 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 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, 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 sun-tanned bald spot; golden-brown eyes, round and easy; a golden-brown lounge jacket and trousers of fine golden-brown corduroy. He waved his arm to 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-seeming 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 7542, File G98.” 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; 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
Policy Directive:
2888 Series BQ008
Order Code:
GZP—AAR—REF
Reference:
OR9—123
Date Code:
BR—EQ—LLT
Authorized:
JR D-SDS
Checked:
AC
Counterchecked:
CX McD
From:
Judiath Ripp, Director
Through:
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 6511.” He returned the directive in question to Luke, 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 disa
ppointment. “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 sidewise 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.”
