Journey Beyond Tomorrow

by Robert Sheckley

  "I think," said Harris of Political Science, "that the need for such a Utopia is evident. You've been around the country, Joenes. You've seen for yourself the decadence of our institutions and the apathy of our people."

  "I did notice something of the sort," Joenes said.

  "The reasons are very complex," Harris went on. "But it seems to us that most of the trouble lies in a willful disengagement on the part of the individual, an abdication from the problems of reality. This, of course, is what madness is made of: withdrawal, nonparticipation, and the construction of a fantasy life more gratifying than anything in the real world could be."

  "We workers of the Chorowait experiment," said Man-isfree, "contend that this is a disease of society, and can be cured only by a societal cure."

  "Furthermore," Harris said, "there is very little time. You have seen how quickly everything is breaking down, Joenes. The law is a farce; punishment has lost any meaning, and there are no rewards to offer; religion preaches its antiquated message to people walking a tightrope between apathy and insanity; philosophy offers doctrines that only other philosophers can understand; psychology strug-

  gles to define behavior according to standards that were dead fifty years ago; economics gives us the principle of an endless expansion, which is deemed necessary to keep up with a maniacally increasing birthrate; the physical sciences show us how to keep up this expansion until every square foot is covered with a groaning human; and my own field of politics offers nothing better than ways of temporarily juggling these gigantic forces—juggling until everything breaks down or blows up."

  "And do not think," Manisfree said, "that we absolve ourselves from blame in this situation. Although we teachers purport to know more than other men, we have usually chosen to remain aloof from public life. Practical, hardheaded men of the world have always frightened us; and those men, in their hardheaded way, have brought us to this."

  "Nor is aloofness our only failure," said Hanley of Anthropology. "Let me point out that we have taught— badly! Our few promising students became teachers, thus insulating themselves as we had. The rest of our students sat through the sleep-provoking drone of our lectures, eager only to depart and take their places in a mad world. We did not touch them, Joenes, we did not move them, and we did not teach them to think."

  "In fact," said Blake of Physics, "we did quite the contrary. We managed to equip most of our students with a definite hatred of thinking. They learned to view culture with the greatest suspicion, to ignore ethics, and to consider the sciences solely as a means of making money. This was our responsibility and our failure. The outcome of that failure is the world."

  The professors were silent for a while. Then Harris said, "Those are the problems. But I think we have awakened from our long sleep. Now we have taken action and built Chorowait. I only hope we have built it in time."

  Joenes was eager to ask questions about the community that would solve such terrible problems. But the professors refused to say anything more about it.

  Manisfree said, "Soon you will see Chorowait for yourself, Joenes. Then you can judge on the basis of what is there, rather than what we say."

  "I might add," Blake said, "that you mustn't be disappointed if some of the ideas you will see put into practice

  at Chorowait are not precisely new. Or, to put it in another way, do not judge too harshly if certain of the theoretical bases that govern life at Chorowait are really rather old and unfashionable. After all, we did not construct our community with a view to mere novelty and innovation."

  "On the other hand," Dalton of Chemistry said, "you should not condemn out of hand those features of our community that are novel and unusual. Bold improvisation has been needed to fulfill the various useful legacies of the past. And the willingness to use promising new combinations within the social body is what gives our work its greatest theoretical and practical value."

  Other professors wanted to add a few words to assist Joenes's thinking. But Manisfree asked them all to stop. Joenes would see and judge for himself.

  Only the irrepressible Blake felt called upon to say, "However you judge the experiment, Joenes, I'm sure there will be things to surprise you at Chorowait."

  The professors chuckled appreciatively, then lapsed into silence. Joenes was now more eager than ever to see their work, and his impatience grew during the long ride to the Adirondacks.

  At last they were in the mountains, and Manisfree's old car wheezed and complained as it negotiated the rising hairpin turns. Then Blake touched Joenes on the shoulder and pointed. Joenes saw a high green mountain standing out from all the others. This he knew was Chorowait.

  HOW THE UTOPIA WORKED

  Manisfree's car wearily climbed the deep-rutted road that led up the side of Chorowait Mountain. At the end of this road they came to a barrier constructed of logs. Here they left the car and proceeded on foot, first on a narrow dirt road, then on a path through the forest, and at last into the trackless forest itself, guided only by the steady upward trend of the land.

  All of the professors were badly winded when, at last, they were greeted by two men from Chorowait.

  These men were clad in deerskin. Each carried a bow and a quiver of arrows. They were tanned and ruddy, and they seemed to glow with abundant health and vitality.

  They contrasted strangely with the stooped, pale, hollow-chested professors.

  Manisfree made the introductions. "This is Lunu," he said to Joenes, indicating the larger of the men. "He is the community leader. With him is Gat, whom none can excel at tracking."

  Lunu addressed the professors in a language Joenes had never heard before.

  "He is welcoming us," Dalton whispered to Joenes.

  Gat added something.

  "He says there are many good things to eat this month," Blake translated. "And he asks us to accompany him to the village."

  "What language are they speaking?" Joenes asked.

  "Chorowaitian," said Professor Vishnu of the Sanskrit Department. "It is an artificial language that we devised especially for the community, and for very important reasons."

  "We were aware," said Manisfree, "that the qualities of a language tend to shape processes of thought, as well as to preserve ethnic and class stratifications. For these and other reasons, we considered it absolutely necessary to construct a new language for Chorowait."

  "We had quite a time working it out," said Blake, with a reminiscent grin.

  "Some of us wanted the utmost simplicity," Hanley of Anthropology said. "We wanted to maintain communication through a series of monosyllabic grunts, expecting that such a language would serve as a natural check to man's soaring and frequently destructive thoughts."

  "Others among us," said Chandler of Philosophy, "wanted to construct a language of incredible complexity, with many distinct levels of abstraction. We felt this v/ould serve the same purpose as the monosyllabic grunt, but would be more in keeping with man's needs."

  "We had some jolly fights!" Dalton said.

  "Finally," Manisfree said, "we decided to construct a language that would approximate the vcwel frequency of Anglo-Saxon. The French Department didn't like this, of course. They wanted to use Early Provencal as a model; but we voted them down."

  "Still, they had their influence," said Professor Vishnu. "Although we retained Anglo-Saxon vowel frequency, we

  used an Early Provencal pronunciation. But we discarded anything Indo-European in the construction of roots."

  'The research was tremendous," Dalton said. "Thank God Miss Hua was there to do the dogwork. It's a shame that girl is so ugly."

  "These first-generation Chorowaitians are bilingual," Manisfree said. "But their children, or their children's children, will speak only Chorowaitian. I hope I live long enough to see that day. Already the effects of our new language on the community can be seen."

  "Just consider," Blake said. "There are no words in Chorowaitian for 'homosexuality,' 'incest,' 'rape,' or 'murder.' "

&
nbsp; Luna said, in English, "We call those things Aleewadith, which means thing-which-must-not-be-said."

  "I think that shows," said Dalton, "the sort of thing that can be achieved through semantics."

  Lunu and Gat led the way to the Chorowait village. Starting here, Joenes inspected Chorowait for the remainder of the day.

  He saw that the community's homes had been constructed of birch bark and saplings. Women cooked over open fires, spun wool from the sheep they tended, and took care of babies. Men worked in the steep Chorowait fields, tilling the soil with wooden plows which they had fashioned. Other men hunted in the dense woods or fished in the icy Adirondack streams, bringing back deer and rabbit and trout, which they shared with the community.

  In all of Chorowait, there was not a single manufactured article. Every tool had been fashioned there. Even the skinning knives were handmade, of iron dug from the ground of Chorowait. And what they could not make, the Chorowaitians did without.

  Joenes observed all of this during the daylight hours, and commented favorably on the self-sufficiency, industry, and satisfaction which the community evidently possessed. But Professor Harris, who had accompanied him, seemed strangely apologetic about this aspect of Chorowait.

  "You must understand, Joenes," Harris said, "that this is the mere surface of Chorowait. To your eyes it must seem nothing but another dreary experiment in pastoral living."

  Joenes had never seen nor heard of an experiment in pastoral living. He said that what he saw looked very good indeed.

  "I suppose so," Harris said with a sigh. "But there have been countless numbers of these attempts. Many have started well, but few have continued well. Pastoral life has its charming features, especially when educated, determined, and idealistic people undertake it. But such an existence is usually doomed to disillusion, cynicism, and abandonment."

  ''Will this happen at Chorowait?" Joenes asked.

  "We think not," Harris replied. "I hope we have learned from previous failures. After studying the Utopian experiments of the past, we were able to build safeguards into our own community. In due time, you will see those safeguards."

  That evening, Joenes ate a simple and rather unappetizing meal of milk, cheese, unleavened bread, and grapes. Then he was taken to the Haierogu, or place of worship. This was a clearing in the forest where the people worshiped the sun by day and moon by night.

  "Religion was quite a problem," Hanley whispered to Joenes as the multitude prostrated themselves in pale moonlight. "We didn't want to use anything associated with the Judeo-Christian tradition. Nor were we any fonder of Hinduism or Buddhism. In fact, after considerable research, nothing seemed very good. Some of us wanted to compromise on the T'iele deities of southeastern Zanzibar; others favored the Dhavagna Old Man, who is worshiped by an obscure off-shoot of the Black Thai. But finally we agreed to deify the sun and moon. For one thing, there was ample historical precedent; and for another, we could represent this worship to the New York State authorities as a form of primitive Christianity."

  "Was that important?" Joenes asked.

  "Vastly! You'd be amazed how hard it is to get a license for a place like this. We also had to prove that ours was a free-enterprise system. That presented some difficulties, since the community owns everything in common. Luckily, Gregorias was teaching Logic at the time, and he convinced the authorities.

  The worshipers were swaying and moaning. An old man 78

  stepped forward, his face daubed with yellow clay, and began chanting in Chorowaitian.

  "What is he saying?" Joenes asked.

  Hanley said, "He is intoning a particularly lovely prayer that Geoffrard adapted from a Pindaric ode. This part goes:

  "O Moon, in modesty decked in finest gossamer,

  Gliding with soft feet among the treetops of your people,

  Slipping behind the Acropolis out of fear of your fierce lover the Sun,

  Then touching with dewy fingers the white marble Parthenon,

  To you we sing this song.

  Craving your loving intercession to protect us

  From the menace of the dark hours,

  And to guard us for one little night

  From the Beast of all the world."

  "That's very pretty," Joenes said. "What does that part about the Acropolis and Parthenon mean?"

  "Frankly," Harris said, "I'm not too sure of the suitability of that part myself. But the Classics Department insisted upon having it in. And since Economics, Anthropology, Physics, and Chemistry had made most of the decisions up to then, we let them have their Parthenon. After all, there must be compromise in any cooperative venture."

  Joenes nodded. "And what about that part about the menace of the dark hours, and the Beast of all the world?"

  Harris nodded and winked. "Fear is necessary," he said.

  Joenes was lodged for the night in a small cabin constructed entirely without nails. His bed of pine boughs was charmingly rustic, but also exceedingly uncomfortable. Joenes managed to adopt a posture that gave him the least pain, and to fall into a light doze.

  He was awakened by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw an exceedingly pretty young woman bending over him with a tender smile on her face. Joenes was embarrassed at first, less for himself than for the woman, who he feared had come to the wrong cabin. But

  she showed him at once that she had made no mistake.

  "I am Laka," she said. "I am the wife of Kor, who is the leader of the Young Men's Sun Association. I have come to sleep with you tonight, Joenes, and to do all in my power to welcome you to Chorowait."

  "Thank you," Joenes said. "But does your husband know you're doing this?"

  "What my husband knows or does not know is of little concern," Laka said. "Kor is a religious man, and a believer in the customs of Chorowait. It is a custom and a religious duty among us to make a guest welcome in this fashion. Didn't Professor Hanley tell you?"

  Joenes replied that Hanley of Anthropology had not even hinted at this.

  "Then he was having his little joke with you," Laka said. "It was Professor Hanley himself who gave us this custom, which he took from some book."

  "I had no idea," Joenes said, sliding over as Laka lay down on the pine boughs beside him.

  "I've heard that Professor Hanley was quite vehement on this point," Laka said. "He met with some opposition from the Science Department. But Hanley held that if people needed religion, they also needed customs and practices; and that these customs and practices should be selected by an expert. Finally, that view prevailed."

  "I see," Joenes said. "Did Hanley select other customs similar to this one?"

  "Well," Laka said, "there's the Saturnalia, and the Bacchanalia, and the Eleusinian Mysteries, and the Festival of Dionysus, and Founder's Day, and the Spring and Fall Fertility Rites, and the Adoration of Adonis, and—"

  Here Joenes interrupted and said that there seemed to be many holidays on Chorowait Mountain.

  "Yes," Laka said. "It keeps us women exceedingly busy, but we've grown used to it. The men are not quite sure about it all. They dearly love the holidays, but they tend to grow jealous and spiteful when their own wives are involved."

  "What do they do then?" Joenes asked.

  "They follow the advice of Doctor Broign of the Psychology Department. They run for a prescribed distance of three miles through thick underbrush, then plunge into a cold stream and swim for a hundred yards, then beat upon

  a deerhide punching bag until utter exhaustion sets in. Utter exhaustion, Doctor Broign tells us, is always accompanied by a complete though temporary loss of emotionality."

  "Does the doctor's prescription work?" Joenes asked.

  "It seems to be infallible," Laka said. "If the cure is not completely successful the first time, a man simply has to repeat it as often as necessary. The cure also has the virtue of improving the muscle tone."

  "That's very interesting," Joenes said. Lying close to Laka, he suddenly found that he was no longer i
nterested in anthropological discussions. For a fleeting moment he wondered if Hanley's imposition of his own tastes upon this community was not deplorable; but then he remembered that societies were always shaped by men, and that Hanley's tastes were no worse than some he had heard of, and much better than others. Resolving to think no more of the problem, Joenes reached out and touched Laka's dark hair.

  Laka drew back from him with an involuntary shudder of revulsion.

  "What's wrong?" Joenes asked. "Shouldn't I touch your hair?"

  "It isn't that," Laka said. "The trouble is, I generally dislike being touched at all. Believe me, it has nothing to do with you. It's simply a part of my disposition."

  "How extraordinary!" Joenes said. "And yet you come to this community willingly, and you remain here of your own free will?"

  "That's true," Laka said. "It is a curious thing, but many civilized people who are attracted to a primitive existence have an aversion to the so-called pleasures of the body which the professors study with such great interest. In my own case, which is not atypical, I dearly love the mountains and the fields, and I rejoice in all practical work such as farming, fishing, or hunting. In order to have these things, I am willing to restrain my personal distaste for sexual experiences."

  Joenes found this amazing, and he reflected upon the difficulties one encountered in populating a Utopian community with people. His thoughts were interrupted by Laka, who had composed herself. With her feelings under careful restraint, she put her arms around Joenes's neck and drew him to her.

  But now Joenes felt no more desire for her than he would for a tree or a cloud. Gently he pulled her hands away, saying, "No, Laka, I will not do violence to your natural tastes."