Taverner got to his feet and collected his family. “Ignore them,” he told Ruth. “Our papers will get us by.”
Expertly prepared documents identified him as a speculator in nonferric metals, looking for a wholesale outlet to handle his jobbing. Callisto was a clearing-point for land and mineral operations; a constant flood of wealth-hungry entrepreneurs streamed back and forth, carting raw materials from the underdeveloped moons, hauling mining equipment from the inner planets.
Cautiously, Taverner arranged his topcoat over his arm. A heavyset man, in his middle thirties, he could have passed for a successful business operator. His double-breasted business suit was expensive, but conservative. His big shoes were brightly shined. All things considered, he’d probably get by. As he and his family moved toward the exit ramp, they presented a perfect and exact imitation of the out-planet business-class.
“State your business,” a green-uniformed official demanded, pencil poised. ID tabs were being checked, photographed, recorded. Brain pattern comparisons were being made: the usual routine.
“Nonferric enterprises,” Taverner began, but a second official cut him abruptly off.
“You’re the third cop this morning. What’s biting you people on Terra?” The official eyed Taverner intently. “We’re getting more cops than ministers.”
Trying to maintain his poise, Taverner answered evenly: “I’m here to take a rest. Acute alcoholism—nothing official.”
“That’s what your cohorts said.” The official grinned humorously. “Well, what’s one more Terran cop?” He slid the lockbars aside and waved Taverner and his family through. “Welcome to Callisto. Have fun—enjoy yourselves. Fastest-growing moon in the system.”
“Practically a planet,” Taverner commented ironically.
“Any day now.” The official examined some reports. “According to our friends in your little organization, you’ve been pasting up wall graphs and charts about us. Are we that important?”
“Academic interest,” Taverner said; if three spots had been made, then the whole team had been netted. The local authorities were obviously primed to detect infiltration … the realization chilled him.
But they were letting him through. Were they that confident?
Things didn’t look good. Peering around for a cab, he grimly prepared to undertake the business of integrating the scattered team members into a functioning whole.
That evening, at the Stay-Lit bar on the main street of the commercial district of town, Taverner met with his two team members. Hunched over their whiskey sours, they compared notes.
“I’ve been here almost twelve hours,” Eckmund stated, gazing impassively at the rows of bottles in the gloomy depths of the bar. Cigar smoke hovered in the air; the automatic music box in the corner banged away metallically. “I’ve been walking around town, looking at things, making observations.”
“Me,” Dorser said, “I’ve been at the tape-library. Getting official myth, comparing it to Callistote reality. And talking to the scholars—educated people hanging around the scanning rooms.”
Taverner sipped his drink. “Anything of interest?”
“You know the primitive rule-of-thumb test,” Eckmund said wryly. “I loafed around on a slum street corner until I got in a conversation with some people waiting for a bus. I started knocking the authorities: complaining about the bus service, the sewage disposal, taxes, everything. They chimed right in. Heartily. No hesitation. And no fear.”
“The legal government,” Dorser commented, “is set up in the usual archaic fashion. Two-party system, one a little more conservative than the other—no fundamental difference of course. But both elect candidates at open primaries, ballots circulated to all registered voters.” A spasm of amusement touched him. “This is a model democracy. I read the text books. Nothing but idealistic slogans: freedom of speech, assembly, religion—the works. Same old grammar school stuff.”
The three of them were temporarily silent.
“There are jails,” Taverner said slowly. “Every society has law violations.”
“I visited one,” Eckmund said, belching. “Petty thieves, murderers, claim-jumpers, strong-arm hoods—the usual.”
“No political prisoners?”
“No.” Eckmund raised his voice. “We might as well discuss this at the top of our lungs. Nobody cares—the authorities don’t care.”
“Probably after we’re gone they’ll clap a few thousand people into prison,” Dorser murmured thoughtfully.
“My God,” Eckmund retorted, “people can leave Callisto any time they want. If you’re operating a police state you have to keep your borders shut. And these borders are wide open. People pour in and out.”
“Maybe it’s a chemical in the drinking water,” Dorser suggested.
“How the hell can they have a totalitarian society without terrorism?” Eckmund demanded rhetorically. “I’ll swear to it—there are no thought-control cops here. There is absolutely no fear.”
“Somehow, pressure is being exerted,” Taverner persisted.
“Not by cops,” Dorser said emphatically. “Not by force and brutality. Not by illegal arrest and imprisonment and forced labor.”
“If this were a police state,” Eckmund said thoughtfully, “there’d be some kind of resistance movement. Some sort of ‘subversive’ group trying to overthrow the authorities. But in this society you’re free to complain; you can buy time on the TV and radio stations, you can buy space in the newspapers—anything you want.” He shrugged. “So how can there be a clandestine resistance movement? It’s silly.”
“Nevertheless,” Taverner said, “these people are living in a one-party society with a party line, with an official ideology. They show the effects of a carefully controlled totalitarian state. They’re guinea pigs—whether they realize it or not.”
“Wouldn’t they realize it?”
Baffled, Taverner shook his head. “I would have thought so. There must be some mechanism we don’t understand.”
“It’s all open. We can look everything over.”
“We must be looking for the wrong thing.” Idly, Taverner gazed at the television screen above the bar. The nude girlie song-and-dance routine had ended; now the features of a man faded into view. A genial, round-faced man in his fifties, with guileless blue eyes, an almost childish twitch to his lips, a fringe of brown hair playing around his slightly prominent ears.
“Friends,” the TV image rumbled, “it’s good to be with you again, tonight. I thought I might have a little chat with you.”
“A commercial,” Dorser said, signalling the bartending machine for another drink.
“Who is that?” Taverner asked curiously.
“That kindly-looking geezer?” Eckmund examined his notes. “A sort of popular commentator. Name of Yancy.”
“Is he part of the government?”
“Not that I know of. A kind of home-spun philosopher. I picked up a biography of him on a magazine stand.” Eckmund passed the gaily-colored pamphlet to his boss. “Totally ordinary man, as far as I can see. Used to be a soldier; in the Mars-Jupiter War he distinguished himself—battlefield commission. Rose to the rank of major.” He shrugged indifferently. “A sort of talking almanac. Pithy sayings on every topic. Wise old saws: how to cure a chest cold. What the trouble is back on Terra.”
Taverner examined the booklet. “Yes, I saw his picture around.”
“Very popular figure. Loved by the masses. Man of the people—speaks for them. When I was buying cigarettes I noticed he endorses one particular brand. Very popular brand, now; just about driven the others off the market. Same with beer. The Scotch in this glass is probably the brand Yancy endorses. The same with tennis balls. Only he doesn’t play tennis—he plays croquet. All the time, every weekend.” Accepting his fresh drink Eckmund finished, “So now everybody plays croquet.”
“How can croquet be a planet-wide sport?” Taverner demanded.
“This isn’t a planet,” Dorser put in.
“It’s a pipsqueak moon.”
“Not according to Yancy,” Eckmund said. “We’re supposed to think of Callisto as a planet.”
“How?” Taverner asked.
“Spiritually, it’s a planet. Yancy likes people to take a spiritual view of matters. He’s strong on God and honesty in government and being hardworking and clean-cut. Warmed-over truisms.”
The expression on Taverner’s face hardened. “Interesting,” he murmured. “I’ll have to drop by and meet him.”
“Why? He’s the dullest, most mediocre man you could dream up.”
“Maybe,” Taverner answered, “that’s why I’m interested.”
Babson, huge and menacing, met Taverner at the entrance of the Yancy Building. “Of course you can meet Mr. Yancy. But he’s a busy man—it’ll take a while to squeeze in an appointment. Everybody wants to meet Mr. Yancy.”
Taverner was unimpressed. “How long do I have to wait?”
As they crossed the main lobby to the elevators, Babson made a computation. “Oh, say four months.”
“Four months?”
“John Yancy is just about the most popular man alive.”
“Around here, maybe,” Taverner commented angrily, as they entered the packed elevator. “I never heard of him before. If he’s got so much on the ball, why isn’t he piped all around Niplan?”
“Actually,” Babson admitted, in a hoarse, confidential whisper, “I can’t imagine what people see in Yancy. As far as I’m concerned he’s just a big bag of wind. But people around here enjoy him. After all, Callisto is—provincial. Yancy appeals to a certain type of rural mind—to people who like their world simple. I’m afraid Terra would be too sophisticated for Yancy.”
“Have you tried?”
“Not yet,” Babson said. Reflectively, he added: “Maybe later.”
While Taverner was pondering the meaning of the big man’s words, the elevator ceased climbing. The two of them stepped off into a luxurious, carpeted hall, illuminated by recessed lights. Babson pushed open a door, and they entered a large, active office.
Inside, a screening of a recent Yancy gestalt was in progress. A group of yance-men watched it silently, faces alert and critical. The gestalt showed Yancy sitting at his old-fashioned oak desk, in his study. It was obvious that he had been working on some philosophical thoughts: spread out over the desk were books and papers. On Yancy’s face was a thoughtful expression; he sat with his hand against his forehead, features screwed up into a solemn study of concentration.
“This is for next Sunday morning,” Babson explained.
Yancy’s lips moved, and he spoke. “Friends,” he began, in his deep, personal, friendly, man-to-man voice, “I’ve been sitting here at my desk—well, about the way you’re sitting around your living rooms.” A switch in camera work occurred; it showed the open door of Yancy’s study. In the living room was the familiar figure of Yancy’s sweet-faced middle-aged homey wife; she was sitting on the comfortable sofa, primly sewing. On the floor their grandson Ralf played the familiar game of jacks. The family dog snoozed in the corner.
One of the watching yance-men made a note on his pad. Taverner glanced at him curiously, baffled.
“Of course, I was in there with them,” Yancy continued, smiling briefly. “I was reading the funnies to Ralf. He was sitting on my knee.” The background faded, and a momentary phantom scene of Yancy sitting with his grandson on his knee floated into being. Then the desk and the book-lined study returned. “I’m mighty grateful for my family,” Yancy revealed. “In these times of stress, it’s my family that I turn to, as my pillar of strength.” Another notation was made by a watching yance-man.
“Sitting here, in my study, this wonderful Sunday morning,” Yancy rumbled on, “I realize how lucky we are to be alive, and to have this lovely planet, and the fine cities and houses, all the things God has given us to enjoy. But we’ve got to be careful. We’ve got to make sure we don’t lose these things.”
A change had come over Yancy. It seemed to Taverner that the image was subtly altering. It wasn’t the same man; the good humor was gone. This was an older man, and larger. A firm-eyed father, speaking to his children.
“My friends,” Yancy intoned, “there are forces that could weaken this planet. Everything we’ve built up for our loved ones, for our children, could be taken away from us overnight. We must learn to be vigilant. We must protect our liberties, our possessions, our way of life. If we become divided, and fall to bickering among each other, we will be easy prey for our enemies. We must work together, my friends.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking about this Sunday morning. Cooperation. Teamwork. We’ve got to be secure, and to be secure, we must be one united people. That’s the key, my friends, the key to a more abundant life.” Pointing out the window at the lawn and garden, Yancy said: “You know, I was …”
The voice trailed off. The image froze. Full room lights came on, and the watching yance-men moved into muttering activity.
“Fine,” one of them said. “So far, at least. But where’s the rest?”
“Sipling, again,” another answered. “His slice still hasn’t come through. What’s wrong with that guy?”
Scowling, Babson detached himself. “Pardon me,” he said to Taverner.
“I’ll have to excuse myself-technical matters. You’re free to look around, if you care to. Help yourself to any of the literature—anything you want.”
“Thanks,” Taverner said uncertainly. He was confused; everything seemed harmless, even trivial. But something basic was wrong.
Suspiciously, he began to prowl.
It was obvious that John Yancy had pontificated on every known subject. A Yancy opinion on every conceivable topic was available… modern art, or garlic in cooking, or the use of intoxicating beverages, or eating meat, or socialism, or war, or education, or open-front dresses on women, or high taxes, or atheism, or divorce, or patriotism—every shade and nuance of opinion possible.
Was there any subject that Yancy hadn’t expressed himself on?
Taverner examined the voluminous tapes that lined the walls of the offices. Yancy’s utterances had run into billions of tape feet… could one man have an opinion on everything in the universe?
Choosing a tape at random, he found himself being addressed on the topic of table manners.
“You know,” the miniature Yancy began, his voice tinny in Taverner’s ears, “at dinner the other night I happened to notice how my grandson Ralf was cutting his steak.” Yancy grinned at the viewer, as an image of the six-year-old boy sawing grimly away floated briefly into sight. “Well, I got to thinking, there was Ralf working away at that steak, not having any luck with it. And it seemed to me—”
Taverner snapped the tape off and returned it to the slot. Yancy had definite opinions on everything… or were they so definite?
A strange suspicion was growing in him. On some topics, yes. On minor issues, Yancy had exact rules, specific maxims drawn from mankind’s rich storehouse of folklore. But major philosophical and political issues were something else again.
Getting out one of the many tapes listed under War, Taverner ran it through at random.
“…I’m against war,” Yancy pronounced angrily. “And I ought to know; I’ve done my share of fighting.”
There followed a montage of battle scenes: the Jupiter-Mars War in which Yancy had distinguished himself by his bravery, his concern for his comrades, his hatred of the enemy, his variety of proper emotions.
“But,” Yancy continued staunchly, “I feel a planet must be strong. We must not surrender ourselves meekly … weakness invites attack and fosters aggression. By being weak we promote war. We must gird ourselves and protect those we love. With all my heart and soul I’m against useless wars; but I say again, as I’ve said many times before, a man must come forward and fight a just war. He must not shrink from his responsibility. War is a terrible thing. But sometimes we must…”
As he restored the tape,
Taverner wondered just what the hell Yancy had said. What were his views on war? They took up a hundred separate reels of tape; Yancy was always ready to hold forth on such vital and grandiose subjects as War, the Planet, God, Taxation. But did he say anything?
A cold chill crawled up Taverner’s spine. On specific—and trivial—items there were absolute opinions: dogs are better than cats, grapefruit is too sour without a dash of sugar, it’s good to get up early in the morning, too much drinking is bad. But on big topics … an empty vacuum, filled with the vacant roll of high-sounding phrases. A public that agreed with Yancy on war and taxes and God and planet agreed with absolutely nothing. And with everything.
On topics of importance, they had no opinion at all. They only thought they had an opinion.
Rapidly, Taverner scanned tapes on various major subjects. It was the same all down the line. With one sentence Yancy gave; with the next he took away. The total effect was a neat cancellation, a skillful negation. But the viewer was left with the illusion of having consumed a rich and varied intellectual feast. It was amazing. And it was professional: the ends were tied up too slickly to be mere accident.
Nobody was as harmless and vapid as John Edward Yancy. He was just too damn good to be true.
Sweating, Taverner left the main reference room and poked his way toward the rear offices, where busy yance-men worked away at their desks and assembly tables. Activity whirred on all sides. The expression on the faces around him was benign, harmless, almost bored. The same friendly, trivial expression that Yancy himself displayed.
Harmless—and in its harmlessness, diabolical. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. If people liked to listen to John Edward Yancy, if they wanted to model themselves after him—what could the Niplan Police do about it?
What crime was being committed?
No wonder Babson didn’t care if the police prowled around. No wonder the authorities had freely admitted them. There weren’t any political jails of labor gangs or concentration camps … there didn’t have to be.
Torture chambers and extermination camps were needed only when persuasion failed. And persuasion was working perfectly. A police state, rule by terror, came about when the totalitarian apparatus began to break down. The earlier totalitarian societies had been incomplete; the authorities hadn’t really gotten into every sphere of life. But techniques of communication had improved.
The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories tcsopkd-4 Page 9
