One

by David Karp

  “Professor Burden,” Conger said quietly as he put down the report, “have you any idea why we should call you here?”

  “Why, no.”

  “Really?”

  “No, of course not. Your letter didn’t say why I was to report.”

  “Haven’t you had some thoughts as to the reason you were asked to report?”

  “Well, yes, of course, I have had some thoughts.”

  “Such as what thoughts?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you want to tell me?”

  “Of course I want to tell you. I mean, if you really want to hear them. I was probably wrong, anyway.”

  “What were those thoughts?”

  “I—” Burden shifted slightly in his chair, “I had the rather naive idea that I was going to be—complimented, officially, for my work.”

  “Now, that’s interesting. How complimented?”

  “Well, you know what I mean—a medal or a certificate,” Burden said, flushing now that he had said it outright. It sounded so juvenile, so much like a schoolboy.

  “I’m interested in knowing why you should think the idea was—what did you call it? Naive?”

  “What I meant was—that after all, I can’t expect to be decorated for doing my job.”

  “Why not? Don’t you think the Department has occasion to decorate people for performing their duties?”

  “Well, of course some people might merit awards for their work.”

  “But you would not?”

  “Well, no, not especially.”

  “Why not?”

  “What I meant was—a decoration by the very nature of its definition means recognition for something above and beyond the ordinary call of duty.”

  “Yes, of course. And isn’t your work above and beyond the call of duty, Professor Burden?”

  “I’d hardly say that,” Burden said uncomfortably, shifting in his chair. It seemed so presumptuous the way the fat Mr. Conger was putting it.

  “And yet you said you came here with the expectation of being decorated?”

  “Well, ye-ssss, I guess I did. But as I said, it was naive of me to think that.”

  “In other words, when you view your own work realistically you come to the conclusion that you don’t merit an award. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean. After all, one can hope for awards and recognition. I mean, it’s just the usual vanity that every man has.”

  “You consider yourself a vain man, Professor Burden?”

  “Why, no, not at all,” Burden said with some alarm. It was odd the way this fat, seemingly lethargic man intellectually seized the unexpected meaning from a remark. Perhaps it was because he was so literal. That was a fault quite common with government people and bureaucrats.

  “And yet you said everyone has some vanity, Professor Burden,” Conger went on calmly. “I presume you, too, have some vanity?”

  “Yes, of course I have. Everyone has. It’s part of the nature of every human being to cherish some belief about himself, whether it’s accurate or not. One man thinks he’s handsome—” Burden paused. He didn’t want to offend Conger and very probably he had done just that with that remark. Conger was certainly not handsome. He was a gross-looking man. “And, well, another man might think he’s got a particularly keen sense of humor, and still another might feel that he has a flair for writing. I mean, there you are. All minor vanities.”

  “And your vanity is that you feel that you’re a superior correspondent of the Department?”

  “Well, I like to think that my reports were a little above the average.”

  Conger looked at Burden for a long moment. It was time to jolt this man a little, to confuse him some more, to mix him up. “Your reports have been well below the average, Professor Burden,” Conger said dryly.

  “I beg your pardon,” Burden said, almost rising from his chair.

  “I said your reports are well below the average in judgment, perception, accuracy, and completeness.”

  “I challenge that,” Burden said, now rising from his seat. “You can’t determine that on the basis of one report. I demand that Mr. Young be brought here to testify as to my reports.”

  “Who is Mr. Young?” Conger asked blandly.

  “Mr. Young happens to be my superior. The gentleman to whom I have been writing reports for nearly four years. Before that my superior was Mr. Teller. He’s read my reports for nearly six years. Ask either of those gentlemen about my reports!”

  “There are no such people,” Conger said calmly and truthfully. Burden looked shocked. For a moment he did not know whether to smile or to look pained. He did, however, sit down. Conger was pleased with the reaction.

  “But, surely, I’ve written thousands of reports to Mr. Young and to Mr. Teller,” Burden said in a small, uncertain voice.

  “Nevertheless, there are no such people,” Conger insisted evenly. And there were not. Both Young and Teller were code names for the readers. It was part of a simple system devised for the use of the routing personnel and it effectively kept correspondents from finding out who their readers were.

  Burden had been called up for a routine examination. It was the first time in ten years that his report had fallen into the statistical sampling that went on continuously. Conger had seen thousands of agents in that time. Now it was Burden’s turn.

  Burden had exhibited, to Conger’s thinking, some normal reactions, but he had also exhibited some abnormal ones. Conger smelled intellectual pretension in the man. That was a bad sign. It meant that a normally perfunctory interview would have to take longer, that Conger would have to probe deeper.

  “But if there are no such people,” Burden said, “then who’s been reading my reports?”

  “Your reports have been read very closely, Professor Burden. That’s the reason you’ve been called here. It is the opinion of the Department that your reports have been slipshod, that you have deliberately concealed and distorted certain conversations.” Conger tamped down the charred tobacco in his pipe. The Department held no such opinion at all. It was merely the secondary stage of Conger’s line of questioning. Burden had exhibited belligerence. Conger was testing that belligerence for density. Was he really angry and outraged, or was he merely confused and worried and covering his apprehensions with anger?

  “I can’t understand that,” Burden said, feeling his hands grow cold with guilt, “I simply can’t understand that. I’ve been both judicious and accurate in my reports, I’ve tried to include significant data and yet not overburden my superior with unimportant details.”

  “Then you admit you’ve suppressed details?” Conger asked, lighting his pipe.

  “Not suppressed,” Burden protested, “that’s hardly the word for what I did. I—selected what I considered significant matters.”

  Conger nodded as he drew on his pipe. Burden’s tone had changed. The anger was synthetic. Underneath was a heavy layer of fear. That was normal. Now Conger had to determine the depth of that fear. “Are you absolutely certain that you could judge what details to select?”

  “Well, yes, I mean, after all, I can’t be expected to report everything, can I?”

  “Can’t you?”

  “Well, of course, I could. But it would entail practically a stenographic report of everything I saw and heard each day. As it is, I spend a full hour on my report.”

  “Do you feel that an hour is too much time?”

  “No, no, no, not at all,” Burden said hastily. “Look here, Mr. Conger, I’m afraid you’re getting the impression that I begrudge the time I spend on my job as a correspondent for this Department. I don’t. I look forward to the work, to the reports. I’ll be perfectly honest with you—I enjoy writing the report.”

  “Why do you enjoy it? Do you enjoy it because it gives you a special power over your colleagues and friends?”

  “Well, no, not that.”

  “Do you enjoy the idea that you’re d
oing something no one around you suspects you’re doing?”

  “Well, there is an element of that in it,” Burden said with a faint smile.

  “It makes you feel mysterious, does it?”

  “No, not exactly mysterious. I don’t know what the word for it might be. Like a conspirator, if you know what I mean.”

  “Conspirator?”

  “Yes, you know. When you were a child—didn’t you play at games in which you had a secret role that none knew about? Not your parents or your friends or anyone?”

  “You mean a game in which you share a secret with a few pals and no one else?”

  “Exactly, that’s it,” Burden said, pleased now that he was getting through to Conger. “Well, being a correspondent for the Department is, in a way, like that. I’m in on a secret that others can’t guess.”

  “In other words, you enjoy a privileged position among the people with whom you live?”

  “Well, yes, if you want to put it that way. I know something they don’t know.”

  “And it gives you a certain sense of importance, of superiority to others, this knowledge that is privately yours?”

  “Well,” Burden hesitated, uncertain as to Conger’s tone. The wording seemed faintly sinister, as if a trap were being laid. The remark contained a highly charged word, superiority. It wasn’t a word lightly used and Burden distrusted it. For the first time he began to wonder about this fat investigator’s purposes. “I wouldn’t say that,” Burden finally said guardedly.

  “You wouldn’t say that,” Conger echoed. “Then what would you say about this private, inner feeling that you’re apart from others?”

  “Now, look here, I suppose every correspondent feels exactly the way I do—the need for secrecy, the daily reports, the position of trust. After all, one would have to be less than human if he didn’t feel a slight sense of being different from other people—people who aren’t agents of the Department.”

  “Is this feeling of being different from others a pleasant feeling? Or do you dislike the idea that you’re different from others?”

  Burden paused. That question was weighted unfairly. No matter how it was answered it showed him in a bad light. “Now, wait a minute. I don’t say it’s pleasant being different from others—having to be secretive, reporting them for their least little transgression. But at the same time it isn’t unpleasant. I don’t dislike my work.”

  “It seems to me that between liking something and disliking something the only choice left is indifference. Are you indifferent about your status as a correspondent?”

  “Now you are being unfair,” Burden said, on firmer ground. It was simple sophistry he was dealing with here. Conger might be an experienced investigator, but Burden now felt competent to handle him. “I don’t admit that the only three states of emotion are love, indifference, and hate. That’s primitive thinking. One can love and hate a thing and one can love and be indifferent to a thing at the same time. I’m fond of my work but I dislike the need for secrecy. I hate the idea of giving up time writing a report at the same time that I derive a pleasure from doing the report well. You see, it isn’t as simple as you’re trying to make it.”

  “Your feelings, then, are mingled,” Conger said.

  “All feelings are mingled,” Burden insisted.

  “It might interest you to know that mine aren’t,” Conger said flatly. “Good day, Professor Burden.”

  “What?”

  “I said, good day.”

  “Is this all?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, I mean—was this what I was called in about?”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t yet cleared up the matter of my reports. I don’t think they’ve been below average. I’d like to have that matter thrashed out.”

  “It has been thrashed out, Professor Burden.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Good day, Professor Burden.”

  “Now, wait a minute. You must be fair about this. I’ve been a correspondent for this Department for ten years. As far as I knew I had been doing satisfactory work. I mean, after all, no one’s called me in during ten years. Now I am called in and told my work is unsatisfactory. I’m given no explanation. After a rather inconclusive discussion of my feelings concerning my work I’m dismissed. What am I supposed to think?”

  “Think what you please, Professor Burden.”

  “That tells me nothing. Am I to continue writing my reports? Am I dismissed? Will I be given an opportunity to discover in what instances my reports have been lacking in perception and accuracy and completeness? I mean, after all, you must be fair about this. You can’t very well damn me for being remiss and not give me the chance to answer specific charges.”

  “Do you feel that you’re being treated arbitrarily?” Conger asked blandly.

  “I certainly feel that I haven’t been given any real opportunity to answer whatever grievances the Department feels it has against me—my work.”

  “Are you seriously interested in finding out the exact feelings of the Department?”

  “Why, yes, of course.”

  Conger did not fail to note the hesitation, the softening of the voice, the slight retreating motion of the eyes. It was curious, he thought, how often you tested these people and what looked firm and definite was actually mushy, without substance. Burden was rattled now, badly rattled, and perhaps he was even regretting that he had been so insistent, so professorial. “You’ll be given a hearing and an examination at the Department’s earliest convenience. Is that what you want?”

  “Yes, of course,” Burden said, uncertain whether he should have pursued the matter so far.

  “Very well. We’ll get in touch with you, Professor Burden. Good day,” Conger said.

  Burden hesitated for a moment, put on his hat, and murmured “Good day,” as he went out, softly closing the door behind him.

  Conger regarded the closed door for a long moment and then tapped the pencil in his hand against Burden’s report. He pulled over the dictation machine with his foot, pressed the switch, and picked up the mouthpiece. Carefully, slowly, he dictated.

  “To Chief of Agents Section. From Frank Conger, Special Service Detail Officer. Subject, Professor Burden, collegiate correspondent, Templar College.” Conger paused. Stooping slightly in his chair, he reached under his desk and snapped a switch that stopped the recording machine he had started when Professor Burden had first come into the office. Then he turned back to the machine, picked up his pipe, clamped his teeth on the stem, and resumed dictation. “First examination in ten years. Burden’s initial reactions were uncharacteristic. Unsatisfactory reaction to primary questioning. Unsatisfactory reaction to secondary questioning. Further questioning recommended. Suspect major heresy of deep, subconscious level. Burden is not a stupid man. Heresy is probably deeply integrated and profoundly felt although he has masked it from himself as he has from the Department. Signed, Frank Conger.” Conger snapped the switch on the machine, took the pipe out of his mouth, and rapped out its dottle on the ash tray.

  6

  On Friday, the sixteenth of October, Burden’s hearing and examination were held in a room on the third floor of Building Four.

  For this trip to the Department Burden had to receive special permission from the dean of the School of Liberal Arts. It was given without question once he showed the letter. Emma, however, was not so easily put off the second time with the story of an intercollegiate seminar. Burden did not want to tell her the truth and asked her not to worry. But the very look in his eyes and the sound of his voice did worry Emma.

  “Won’t you tell me where you’re going?”

  “Not far, Emma,” Burden said tenderly, his mind troubled. He was sure that he would acquit himself well at the hearing, but deep down an indefinable sense of apprehension tracked its cold and ghostly feet across his soul.

  “You won’t be gone overnight, will you?”

  “I may,” Burden said, although he did
not expect that he would.

  “Surely you won’t be gone more than two days?”

  “I hope not, dear,” Burden said, and Emma looked at him closely, her eyes frightened. “Now, now,” Burden said gently, taking her into his arms, “don’t act that way. I’ve been away from home before. I’m not going far. It’s just a three-hour trip by train from here.”

  “Can’t I go with you? Or join you there tomorrow?” she insisted when Burden shook his head to the first question.

  “Emma, Emma, what is this? Suspicion? Not at this late stage of our marriage!”

  “I’m afraid,” she said, nestling closely against him, her cheek against his.

  “Of what, for heaven’s sake?”

  “I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “Why won’t you tell me where you’re going?”

  “All right,” Burden said, finally deciding that it would be silly to keep her in the dark. “I’ve been asked to appear at the Department of Internal Examination.” His wife’s reaction alarmed him. She let go of him and gasped, her eyes wide and dark and filled with terror. “Good heavens, Emma,” Burden said, alarmed now, feeling his own fear gathering momentum from Emma’s reaction and growing inside of him.

  “They’ll hurt you,” Emma said, putting her hand up to her mouth, trembling.

  “Now where on earth did you get such a wild idea? The Department’s got a world-wide reputation for fairness, for justice, for benevolence.”

  “I’ve heard things,” Emma said, biting her lips, “people they’ve driven out of their minds, things they’ve done in those buildings that no one knows about.”

  “Emma, stop that!” Burden felt his own breath coming short now. These were heresies of the worst sort. Of course such goblin rumors had always floated about, no one willing to vouch for them. But he hadn’t heard them in years, not since he was a boy. Not in thirty years had he heard a whisper against the Department. Not since the abolition of punishment as a social concept. “Now, Emma,” Burden took his wife’s hands and was shocked to discover how cold and trembling they were, “those are things you heard as a child—years and years ago. They’re no longer true, if they ever were. No intelligent person believes those ghost stories any more. I’ve been inside the Department’s buildings. No torture racks, no dungeons, no keepers, no men with whips. It’s just an enormous group of office buildings. Nothing at all sinister about them. Believe me. I’ve been there and I’ve seen them already. In fact, I wouldn’t be going back at all this time if I hadn’t requested it.”