by Damon Knight
“Professor Palladino, forgive me, but I find these ideas very strange and I’m a bit confused. Let me ask you a few questions which you may find very elementary.”
Palladino nodded, smiled. “With pleasure.”
“Well, in the first place, then, let me ask, if there were no money, how would we get the things we want? By barter?”
“No, not by barter. In the moneyless society all goods will be free.”
“They will be free? Everything?”
“Certainly. They will be distributed in just the same way, but there will be no payment. You will go to the food store, for instance, take a chicken, some eggs, milk and corn meal or whatever you need, and go home.”
“Eh,” said the host, and laughed. “That’s very nice, but let’s imagine that I’m the farmer who grows the chicken you have just put in your basket. Why should I put the chicken in the store for you to take?”
“Do you like to grow chickens?”
“I myself?”
“No, the farmer.”
“Well, I suppose he must like to do it, or he would be doing something else. But why should he give the chickens away?”
“Why not? Whatever he himself wants is also free. You know, it is a myth that people work only for money. How many people are there in this country who want to be farmers but who have been driven off the land by the agricultural corporations? Do you imagine that if they could go back to the land and live without want, they would refuse because no one would pay them in money?”
“I see. But in fact, aren’t there some jobs that nobody wants to do?”
“Would you be kind enough to name them?”
“Well…” The host gestured helplessly. “You know… sanitation and so forth.”
“Sanitation is a worthy occupation,” said Palladino. “To make things clean, what could be better? But you want to suggest that nobody likes dealing with dirty things, with ordures for instance. You assume that everyone would prefer to put on a collar and work in an office. But I think this is an unfounded assumption. I know some very happy people who clean cesspools, and I know some very unhappy people who work in offices.”
“Ha, ha! But, for the sake of argument, wouldn’t you admit that there are some jobs that nobody would do unless they were paid?”
“I don’t think we know whether there are such jobs or not. Suppose we investigate carefully, and we find that in fact there are a few things that nobody wants to do. In the moneyless society, if they are necessary things, we will take turns doing them, because they must be done. But we may find that they are not necessary. Think of the cashier in the food store, and the bookkeeper, and the accountant who has to make sure all the numbers are in balance. This is not useful work. In the moneyless society those people will be liberated to perform tasks that are useful and pleasant.”
“And if they don’t choose to work at all?”
“How many people are there who really like to be idle? Do you?”
“I? No, but there are others—”
“Forgive me, I don’t think so. There are young people who are idle because there is no work for them and they have not been trained to do anything useful. They are idle because they have no choice. Even most rich people are not idle. They are active in social and charitable organizations, in politics, or in professions and business. They are very busy people, and why? Because they like being busy, and they would hate being idle.”
Stevens was amused and interested. He had met other eccentrics of this kind, people who could defend an apparently nonsensical position so logically that they left their questioners gasping and wordless. There had been a man in Oslo, for instance, who could prove absolutely that the Earth was flat. Then there were the cult leaders who talked solemnly about “energy” and “higher thought.” There was a great deal of money in these enterprises, and the best part of it was that it was all legal; there was no law against taking money in exchange for nonsense.
A day or two later, passing a lecture hall near the Piazza Cola di Rienzo, he saw a poster on a board outside:
LIVE WITHOUT MONEY!
Free lecture by the renowned scholar, Professor Edgar Palladino.
Contributions accepted.
The lecture was at eleven, and it was almost that now. Suspecting a meaningful coincidence, Stevens followed a few shabbily dressed people into the lobby, where he found a young woman at a card table under a larger version of the same poster. On the card table was a pile of pamphlets, a stack of cards, and a box with some currency in it.
Stevens said, “Good morning. How much is the contribution?”
“Just whatever you like, Signor.” She had a nice smile, and her figure was good. Stevens decided to be generous, and dropped five hundred new lire in the box.
“Thank you, Signor. The lecture is about to begin, but will you be kind enough to fill out one of these cards afterward? And please accept this little pamphlet.”
Stevens took the card and pamphlet and left with a bow. Inside the lecture hall, about forty people were sitting in scattered clumps. Evidently the idea of living without money was not attractive to many. He had an impulse to leave, but suppressed it when a young man walked onto the platform. “Gentlemen and ladies, welcome. Today you are going to hear the most astounding message of the age, a message that will transform your lives. But first let me introduce myself. I am Bruno Colmari, a factory worker’s son born exactly here, in Rome. Two years ago, in Milan, I met Professor Edgar Palladino, the distinguished scholar who will address you today. I listened to him speak, and realized that he alone has the solutions we are all seeking. Professor Palladino was awarded his doctorate of philosophy in Padua in nineteen eighty-five, and he has taught and lectured in Naples, Paris, and many other world capitals. He is the author of The Optimal Society and many other distinguished works of scholarship. Today he comes to tell you how you can transform your lives. Please welcome Professor Edgar Palladino!”
Following his cue, there was a polite scattering of applause. Palladino, in an ill-fitting brown suit, walked out from the wing. He shook hands with Colmari, who retired. Palladino took a determined stance behind the lectern. He began to speak in a voice so low that Stevens had to strain to hear.
“My good friends, it is a pleasure to see you here today. You are few in number, but as Edward Young said, the mountains are made of grains of sand. Now let me prepare you a little for what you are about to hear. You will find it surprising at first, but please listen with an open mind. It is very simple: you can live without money. How? By cooperating with others who also want to live without money. That’s all that is necessary. As things now stand, we have collectively agreed to pretend that we need money, a fictitious medium of exchange. What is it? It is not even plastic coins or paper any more, things worthless in themselves, it is numbers in the memories of computers. And these numbers rule our lives and enable others to become rich at our expense. Now let us suppose that we all collectively agree to stop pretending that we need money. What will the consequences be?
“Let’s imagine that in a certain town the people discover one day that all the money has disappeared. Behold!” He looked around with a comical grimace. “It has gone, no one knows where! What is to be done? The people come together to discuss the matter. One says, ‘Well, if there is no more money, we must use barter. I will bring my cow to market, and my vegetables, and trade them for whatever I need, and you, my friend the shoemaker, will barter your shoes.’”
He paused and looked around again. “The shoemaker says, ‘That sounds very well, but how am I going to barter a pair of shoes for a cow?’”
“ ‘Simple,’ says the farmer. ‘You, my friend the butcher, will slaughter the cow and cut it up into roasts and steaks, keeping some for your trouble, and with one or two of these good pieces of meat I will purchase the shoes.’
“And they all agree that this is a good plan, but then the tractor dealer says, ‘For myself, I see a little difficulty. One of my tractors is worth mor
e than any cow, and even if I took ten cows in payment, that would be more meat than I could eat in a year. What am I to do with all this meat? Before I can trade it for things I want, it will spoil.’ And the schoolmaster says, ‘Frankly, I don’t see how I am to be paid for the work I do. The shoemaker’s children are all grown; he will not give me shoes, and the tractor dealer will not give me a tractor. If he did, what would I do with it?’
“So they all begin to see that the problem is not so simple as it first appeared. Then someone says, ‘Perhaps we are going about it the wrong way. We are talking about a substitute for money—barter, which is inconvenient and unwieldy. But what if we don’t need any substitute for money? Each of us produces something that is of use to others. The farmer raises cows and vegetables, the tanner tans hides, the shoemaker makes shoes, the tractor dealer distributes tractors, the schoolmaster educates our children. Let us agree to give away the things we produce to anyone who asks for them. Then the farmer will have his tractor, the schoolmaster will have his shoes, the shoemaker will have bread—in short, everything will be exactly as before, except that we will have done it all without money.’”
At the end of the lecture Palladino called for questions. There were only two, the same ones that the holo interviewer had raised; Palladino answered them with patience and humor, but the audience, when it straggled out, did not look deeply impressed.
Evidently Palladino’s organization was just getting started; it was small, badly financed, and amateurish. At the moment he was merely one crackpot among many; later he might be a very successful guru. The opportunity was attractive; Stevens decided to make a modest investment.
After the next lecture, he approached the young woman behind the card table and offered her a bundle of notes which he had obtained earlier from the bank. “I would like to make a small contribution,” he said. “I’m sorry it isn’t more.”
The woman counted the money with a smile of delight. “Oh, this is wonderful of you, Signor—”
“Peter Kauffman,” said Stevens. “And you?”
“My name is Maria Orsi, Signor Kauffman. I’m happy to make your acquaintance.” She offered her hand. “Now let me write you a receipt. You know, Professor Palladino has nothing. Really, he is like a medieval saint. A few friends try to see that he has something in his pockets, but he gives it all away.”
“Well, it’s honorable for a philosopher to be poor, but there is a paradox involved. It will take money to establish the moneyless society.”
“That’s so true. I’m glad you understand. Perhaps, Signor Kauffman, you would like to come to one of our little private meetings? Just a few of the Professor’s closest friends.”
“I should be delighted.”
8
Randy Geller and Yvonne Barlow lived in a comfortable apartment in the perm section of CV. Perm was laid out almost like a small town; the corridors had street names, and there was a park and a town square. A lively group of young people circulated in the neighborhood, and somebody threw a party every weekend.
The Ottenburgs were one of the couples Geller and Barlow saw frequently. Steve was an engineer who worked in the machine shop, and Andrea was a kindergarten teacher. One evening at a party Geller took Andrea aside and said, “Hey, how’s it going?”
“Not too bad. How about you?”
“Could be worse. Listen, can you get me some spray paint, preferably green?”
“Sure. One can?”
“No, say about twenty?”
“Twenty cans? What are you going to do with it?”
“A special project. Very hush-hush.”
She looked at him seriously. “All right. I’ll bring it home a few cans at a time, all right?”
“Sure. And maybe some green markers—twenty or thirty?”
“Okay. Sure you don’t want to tell me what you’re up to?”
“If you don’t know, you can’t tell. Do you have to sign requisitions or anything?”
“I’m supposed to, but everybody just takes it from the storeroom.”
“That’s fine.”
The next night, after Yvonne and the child were asleep, he got up quietly and dressed in slacks, tennis shoes and a sweatshirt. He got a spray can out of the closet and put it in the sweatshirt pocket. He left without waking Yvonne, went out the back way into the service alley and emerged into the main street a block away. Only the nightlights were on, but the dim blue light was enough to make out the spy-eyes and their wiring scabbed to the walls near the ceiling—little fisheye lenses, one about every fifty feet. Geller did a dry run and timed it; it took him forty seconds to do the six hundred feet between Pacific and Oak. Were the spy-eyes tracking him, even in this dim light? More likely they were infrared sensitive, but that would give a blurred image anyhow.
The echo of his footsteps died away. The street was still empty; nobody had come out to see what he was up to. Geller took the spray can out of his pocket and wrote on the wall, “THE GREEN HORNET STRIKES.” He aimed the spray at the nearest lens. After a couple of seconds an alarm bell began to ring. Geller sprayed that, too, and after a moment it stopped. He raced along the street, hitting one lens after another. Then another alarm bell. He dropped the spray can in a trash receptacle and went home.
“You did that, didn’t you?” Yvonne asked.
“Yup.”
“What’s this Green Hornet supposed to be?”
“I don’t know, a comix hero, maybe. It’s a story my dad used to tell when he thought I wasn’t listening. This first-grade teacher happens to notice one day there’s a puddle of pee in the cloakroom. So she calls all the kids together, and she tells them she’s going to turn out the lights and leave the room for five minutes. While she’s gone, whoever made the puddle is supposed to mop it up, and that’ll be the end of it, okay? So she goes and comes back, and now there are two puddles of pee in the cloakroom, and a note that says, ‘The Green Hornet strikes again.’”
In the lab, he concocted a colorless hygroscopic goo that would turn liquid and green in about three hours. At five o’clock in the morning, when the snack bar was still dark, he went in, climbed on a table with his bucket, and painted goo in a stripe six inches wide and five feet long at the top of the end wall. At breakfast three hours later, he was rewarded by the sound of laughter and cheering. The green goo, appearing out of nowhere, was dripping in slow gouts down the wall. There were shouts of “The Green Hornet!” and more cheers.
During the next few days Geller left spray cans and green markers in inconspicuous places throughout the Main Deck. By Friday evening they were all gone.
After dinner on Tuesday, the face of Captain MacDonald Trilling appeared in all the holos. He was the chief of the Wackenhuts, the contract security people. “You know,” he said with his meaningless smile, “we have talked before about keeping CV a pleasant place for all of us to live. Well, what does that mean, a pleasant place to live? I suppose it means a place where we can all be comfortable and get everything we need. And it means a place where we can have stimulating experiences. By that I mean all kinds of things—social meetings, parties, entertainments, and so on. Well, lately we’ve been having a new kind of entertainment—the Green Hornet.
“I want to talk to you about that. Where do we draw the line between things that are entertaining and things that are dangerous? The Green Hornet, whoever he or she may be, has been doing some things that endanger all of us. For instance, blinding the security cameras in the corridors. That’s just a nuisance, in the sense that it takes somebody’s time to clean the paint off, but what if they ruined the lenses? Then there would be no way to detect and punish crime in the corridors. And believe me, it’s happened before. Violent assault, rape—do you want that to happen again? Talk to your friends. If you know anybody who is involved in these games, see if you can explain to them what they’re risking. That’s all. Have a good evening.”
Security people came and took away all the green markers in storerooms, the green paint, green
tape, green construction paper. Two days later, the camera lenses in the corridors were sprayed with blue paint. On the wall was smeared, THE BLUE HORNET STRIKES AGAIN!
At the staff meeting the next day Melanie Kurtz said, “I’m absolutely opposed to any room searches or anything of that kind. If we create an oppressive atmosphere for the grownups, it can’t help affecting the children.”
“Which ones are the children?” Cunningham wanted to know.
“Well, they’re behaving childishly, of course. It’s probably just a few people, not more than a dozen or so out of the whole detainee population. Teenagers, maybe. But the rest of the detainees seem to be enjoying it. If we do anything of a disciplinary or retaliatory nature, we’re going to see some resentment.”
“We can’t let this go on. What do you suggest, Melanie?”
“Let them have their fun. They’ll get tired of it.”
Two Wackenhut guards, Ronald Guest and Daryl Singlaub, entering the cafeteria where they usually had their lunch, heard a peculiar noise behind them: first a single “Oink,” barely audible, then a low-voiced chorus. “Oink. Oink. Oink.” When they turned around, the noises stopped; the diners looked at them innocently. As soon as they started walking again, the noises resumed.
Singlaub turned and said, “Look, people, we’re just doing our job. How about a little courtesy?”
