"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. T
hey 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 first really successful totalitarian state was being realized before his eyes: harmless and trivial, it emerged. And the last stage—nightmarish, but perfectly logical—was when all the newborn boys were happily and voluntarily named John Edward.
Why not? They already lived, acted, and thought like John Edward. And there was Mrs. Margaret Ellen Yancy, for the women. She had her full range of opinions, too; she had her kitchen, her taste in clothes, her little recipes and advice, for all the women to imitate.
There were even Yancy children for the youth of the planet to imitate. The authorities hadn't overlooked anything.
Babson strolled over, a genial expression on his face. "How's it going, officer?" he chuckled wetly, putting his hand on Taverner's shoulder.
"Fine," Taverner managed to answer; he evaded the hand.
"You like our little establishment?" There was genuine pride in Babson's thick voice. "We do a good job. An artistic job—we have real standards of excellence."
Shaking with helpless anger, Taverner plunged out of the office and into the hall. The elevator took too long; furiously, he turned toward the stairs. He had to get out of the Yancy Building; he had to get away.
From the shadows of the hall a man appeared, face pale and taut. "Wait. Can—I talk to you?"
Taverner pushed past him. "What do you want?"
"You're from the Terran Niplan Police? I—" The man's Adam's apple bobbed. "I work here. My name's Sipling, Leon Sipling. I have to do something—I can't stand it anymore."
"Nothing can be done," Taverner told him. "If they want to be like Yancy—"
"But there isn't any Yancy," Sipling broke in, his thin face twitching spasmodically. "We made him up … we invented him."
Taverner halted. "You what?"
"I've decided." Voice quavering excitedly, Sipling rushed on: "I'm going to do something—and I know exactly what." Catching hold of Taverner's sleeve he grated: "You've got to help me. I can stop all this, but I can't do it alone."
In Leon Sipling's attractive, well-furnished living room, the two of them sat drinking coffee and watching their children scramble around on the floor, playing games. Sipling's wife and Ruth Taverner were in the kitchen, drying the dishes.
"Yancy is a synthesis," Sipling explained. "A sort of composite person. No such individual actually exists. We drew on basic prototypes from sociological records; we based the gestalt on various typical persons. So it's true to life. But we stripped off what we didn't want, and intensified what we did want." Broodingly, he added: "There could be a Yancy. There are a lot of Yancy-like people. In fact, that's the problem."
"You deliberately set out with the idea of remolding people along Yancy's line?" Taverner inquired.
"I can't precisely say what the idea is, at top level. I was an ad writer for a mouthwash company. The Callisto authorities hired me and outlined what they wanted me to do. I've had to guess as to the purpose of the project."
"By authorities, you mean the governing council?"
Sipling laughed sharply. "I mean the trading syndicates that own this moon: lock, stock, and barrel. But we're not supposed to call it a moon. It's a planet." His lips twitched bitterly. "Apparently, the authorities have a big program built up. It involves absorbing their trade rivals on Ganymede—when that's done, they'll have the out-planets sewed up tight."
"They can't get at Ganymede without open war," Taverner protested. "The Medean companies have their own population behind them." And then it dawned. "I see," he said softly. "They'd actually start a war. It would be worth a war, to them."
"You're damn right it would. And to start a war, they have to get the public lined up. Actually, the people here have nothing to gain. A war would wipe out all the small operators—it would concentrate power in fewer hands—and they're few enough already. To get the eighty million people here behind the war, they need an indifferent, sheep-like public. And they're getting that. When this Yancy campaign is finished, the people here on Callisto will accept anything. Yancy does all their thinking for them. He tells them how to wear their hair. What games to play. He tells the jokes the men repeat in their back rooms. His wife whips up the meal they all have for dinner. All over this little world—millions of duplicates of Yancy's day. Whatever he does, whatever he believes. We've been conditioning the public for eleven straight years. The important thing is the unvarying monotony of it. A whole generation is growing up looking to Yancy for an answer to everything."
"It's a big business, then," Taverner observed. "This project of creating and maintaining Yancy."
"Thousands of people are involved in just writing the material. You only saw the first stage—and it goes into every city. Tapes, films, books, magazines, posters, pamphlets, dramatic visual and audio shows, plants in the newspapers, sound trucks, kids' comic strips, word-of-mouth report, elaborate ads … the works. A steady stream of Yancy." Picking up a magazine from the coffee table he indicated the lead article. "'How is John Yancy's Heart?' Raises the question of what would we do without Yancy? Next week, an article on Yancy's stomach." Acidly, Sipling finished: "We know a million approaches. We turn it out of every pore. We're called yance-men; it's a new art-form."
"How do you—the corps, feel about Yancy?"
"He's a big sack of hot air."
"None of you is convinced?"
"Even Babson has to laugh. And Babson is at the top; after him come the boys who sign the checks. God, if we ever started believing in Yancy … if we got started thinking that trash meant something—" An expression of acute agony settled over Sipling's face. "That's it. That's why I can't stand it."
"Why?" Taverner asked, deeply curious. His throat-mike was taking it all in, relaying it back to the home office at Washington. "I'm interested in finding out why you broke away."
Sipling bent down and called his son. "Mike, stop playing and come on over here." To Taverner he explained: "Mike's nine years old. Yancy's been around as long as he's been alive."
Mike came dully over. "Yes, sir?"
"What kind of marks do you get in school?" his father asked.
The boy's chest stuck out proudly; he was a clear-eyed little miniature of Leon Sipling. "All A's and B's."
"He's a smart kid," Sipling said to Taverner. "Good in arithmetic, geography, history, all that stuff." Turning to the boy he said:
"I'm going to ask you some questions; I want this gentleman to hear your answers. Okay?"
"Yes, sir," the boy said obediently.
His thin face grim, Sipling said to his son: "I want to know what you think about war. You've been told about war in school; you know about all the famous wars in history. Right?"
"Yes, sir. We learned about the American Revolution, and the First Global War, and then the Second Global War, and then the First Hydrogen War, and the War between the colonists on Mars and Jupiter."
"To the schools," Sipling explained tightly to Taverner, "we distribute Yancy material—educational subsidies in packet form. Yancy takes children through history, explains the meaning of it all. Yancy explains natural science. Yancy explains good posture and astronomy and every other thing in the universe. But I never thought my own son…" His voice trailed off unhappily, then picked up life. "So you know all about war. Okay, what do you think of war?"
Promptly, the boy answered: "War is bad. War is the most terrible thing there is. It almost destroyed mankind."
Eying his son intently, Sipling demanded: "Did anybody tell you to say that?"
The boy faltered uncertainly. "No, sir."
"You really believe those things?"
"Yes, sir. It's true, isn't it? Isn't war bad?"
Sipling nodded. "War is bad. But what about just wars?"
Without hesitation the boy answered: "We have to fight just wars, of course."
"Why?"
"Well, we have to protect our way of life."
"Why?"
Again, there was no hesitation in the boy's reedy answer. "We can't let them walk over us, sir. That would encourage aggressive war. We can't permit a world of brute power. We have to have a world of—" He searched for the exact word. "A world of law."
Wearily, half to himself, Sipling commented: "I wrote those meaningless, contradictory words myself, eight years ago." Pulling himself together with a violent effort he asked: "So war is bad. But we have to fight just wars. Well, maybe this—planet, Callisto, will get into a war with … let's pick Ganymede, at random." He was unable to keep the harsh irony from his voice. "Just at random. Now, we're at war with Ganymede. Is it a just war? Or only a war?"
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 160
