by Jen Cole
“And now you have no wilderness to run in at all. Your movements are restricted to a few dozen silos, thanks to The Company.”
Fitani responded angrily. “We need the clean ground for food production.”
“So you say.” Jo’s voice was mild. “But you showed me a tremendous amount of land under cultivation. You seem to be producing more than the needs of a few hundred thousand people.”
Fitani sneered. “What would you know about it?”
“Well, having been in the farming business all my life,” said Jo, “I do have some understanding of crop yields.”
“We don’t just supply our own Safe Place,” Fitani admitted. “We export a large percentage of our crops to Safe Places that specialize in meat, fruit or mineral production and they send a portion of their produce to us. It’s more efficient for each Safe Place to devote their land to just one kind of production.”
“Is it?” said Jo, spotting Avocado Blue and turning into it. “That approach certainly makes it hard for each Safe Place to know when they’re producing enough, and can start devoting some of their land to leisure pursuits.”
“You’re making it sound as though The Company wants to keep us constrained. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Company’s great aim is to enable everyone to roam the world again. That’s why they employ us to clean the earth.”
Jo spied an empty table at the rear of the cafe and checked her watch as she moved towards it. 8.45. She had half an hour to make decent inroads into a meal and was confident as her stomach quietly rumbled that this would be no problem. Taking a seat, she looked up at one of the passing waiters.
“With you in a minute,” he called, disappearing through a door at the back and returning a few seconds later with a couple of menus. Jo waved them away and pointed to a laden plate on the next table.
“That’s what I’d like. Andy will have a bowl of muesli and we’ll both have orange juice and tea.”
“No worries.” The boy scribbled in his notepad and disappeared through the back door.
“No-man’s land,” Jo said to Fitani who had taken the seat opposite. “That area of cleaned earth between the fields and the radioactive land. How long did it take to create? And how do you plan to use it?”
The host frowned. “A lot of questions, for one who has none. I shall complete the question I returned to answer and you shall listen.”
“I’ll try,” she said meekly.
“Now, I was telling you about the Playrooms. Our Playroom activities cover every need of a functioning society...”
As Fitani waffled on, the orange juice arrived and Jo drank thirstily. It was freshly squeezed and delicious. She drained her glass and swapped it for Fitani’s full one, just ahead of the waiter returning with the tea.
The large pot was placed on the table between them, along with cups, a jug of milk, a strainer, and a container of sugar straws. Jo added milk to the cups while she waited for the tea to steep.
Fitani watched her. “Are you ready to hear how the Playrooms work?”
She stared at him. He actually wants to tell me, she realized. For all his complaints, he’s proud of his people and their achievements.
“Go ahead,” said Jo.
“I’ll use a food Playroom to demonstrate,” said Fitani. “The same principle applies to all. Now you might go into a food Playroom just to eat, in which case you’d enter the dining area, choose a meal, pay the Personal Points, eat and leave. On the other hand, you might go in to play!
“Instead of the dining area, you’d go to the Play-Wall and check out the activities listed. Beside each one is a Personal Point value, a time allocation, a skill-designation and a flashing “A” or “T” for “Available” or “Taken’. You can join any available Play-Activity you’re skilled for.
“Skilled? You mean like having an accurate throw for hurling mashed potato in the food-fight game?” Jo said with a straight face.
Fitani glared. “With Food-1 skills you can take on activities such as: cleaning, chopping ingredients, waiting tables, etc. An hour’s scraping and stacking of dishes into the crockery cleaner for example, wins you two Personal Points.”
Jo gave an incredulous huff. “Not what I’d describe as play.”
She placed the strainer on her cup and lifted the teapot, rocking it gently before pouring out the golden liquid.
“Well,” admitted Fitani, eyeing the stream, “that particular activity is not everyone’s cup of tea, but some like it as a way of winning Personal Points and those who don’t, choose something else. The higher skilled activities are more interesting and you can take them on after successfully completing training courses from instructional Playrooms.
“Those reaching the highest levels of expertise in any play activity can apply for “Creative Status’. This means they can submit their own ideas to The Company. To continue with the food example, an employee with a skill designation of Food-10, would be allowed to submit menu ideas and be supplied with appropriate ingredients. If the dishes proved popular, the employee would win bonus Points.”
Jo frowned. “Surely there’d be activities so unpleasant no one would want to do them.”
Fitani shook his head. “The Personal Point awards are constantly fine-tuned. If insufficient people are signing up for an activity, it means not enough Points have been allocated to it. Increase them and suddenly employees are clamoring to play.”
Before Jo could comment, breakfast arrived, and it was all she had hoped for. On a thick, perfectly toasted slice of sourdough bread sat two plump poached eggs. Beside them lay rashers of bacon, a little hill of seared baby spinach, some miniature mushrooms, two halves of a fried tomato and a spoonful of rich chutney. Jo speared the eggs, spreading their soft yolks over the toast and adding a sprinkle of salt. Then she waded in.
Fitani seemed to be waiting for some kind of appreciative comment.
“It’s a wonder employees ever want to leave the Playrooms,” said Jo sardonically around a mouthful of toast.
He took her literally. “Employees can get caught up in a play activity,” he said. “But our halo system solves that. Halos appear around the heads of any employees who are not in the cloaking room at least eight minutes before their work shift. The halo displays a countdown to remind the employee of the time remaining before work. If the countdown drops to five minutes, the halo changes to a black cloud. You’re forced to stop your play then, because you can no longer see what you’re doing.”
Jo sipped her tea, reluctantly fascinated.
“Nearby employees are compelled to action. It’s a crime not to assist if you see an employee wearing a black cloud. People guide the wearer down to the cloaking room. With luck they’ll be able to don their protective suit and get to their work pick-up point on time.”
“Seems a bit over the top,” said Jo. “So what if they’re a few minutes late.”
“For each second an employee is late, there is a fine of thirty Personal Points – a day’s salary, and the late seconds are added to the end of the work shift. It’s rare for anyone to be as much as a minute late. Who would want to be fined 1,800 Personal Points and have to check into the prison silo for a tube and a play period? So you see, everyone’s grateful to the halo system for ensuring we get to work on time.”
Jo goggled. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. If you are one minute late for work, you have to make up that minute, you’re fined over two months’ salary and you have to spend twenty hours in jail.”
“Exactly!” Fitani beamed like a teacher pleased with his student’s performance. “But,” he added seriously, “it’s extremely rare for an employee to be as much as a minute late. In my Safe Place I think it’s only happened once in the past ten years.”
“How,” declared Jo when she could finally get words out, “was such a law ever passed!”
Fitani seemed bemused at her reaction. “It’s not so much a law as a contractual agreement. The Company must have an expectation that em
ployees looked after as well as we are, will fulfill their side of the bargain when it comes to work. After all, we are provided with comfortable housing, well-equipped Playrooms and of course our salaries.”
Jo speared a crust with her fork and ran it around her plate to mop up the last of the egg.
“Which you’ve told me are thirty Personal Points a day. But without knowing the cost of living I don’t know if that’s good.”
“Unfortunately,” said Fitani gruffly, “one of the evils from your time that clawed its way through to ours, is taxes. Half the Personal Points we earn are deducted for taxes and most of the rest goes in tube rental and Playroom access. Only a few Personal Points can be saved each week. Not that we need any more,” he hastened to add. “Employees can live comfortably on this as long as they don’t mind sticking with plain food, a restricted range of holographic clothing and basic, low cost entertainments.”
“Sounds a bit depressing.”
“Most prefer more than the basics,” Fitani admitted. “Fortunately Play-Time gives us the opportunity to win extra Points and indulge in a few luxuries.”
Jo rounded up the last of the spinach and chutney and spoke cautiously. “Danny, you must be aware from observing our society, that what your people call play, mine call work, and we earn a lot more than a few token dollars for our efforts.”
Fitani replied tranquilly. “My dear, it’s you who are confused by what is no more than a superficial resemblance.”
Jo lifted an eyebrow. “Superficial.”
The host leant back, smiling. “Would you agree that work is linked to survival?”
Reluctantly drawn in a direction of Fitani’s choosing, Jo gave a nod. “I guess so.”
“Okay, we have our definition. Work is something one must do on a continual basis in order to survive. Would you also agree that most people do not head off to work with joy in their hearts?”
Jo hesitated. “I suppose if they had the choice, most would choose not to work, but many in my world still enjoy their work.”
“Perhaps,” said Fitani. “But not nearly as many and not nearly to the degree that my people enjoy Play-Time. Even amongst those in your world who are lucky enough to find work in areas that interest them, most will ultimately tire of doing the same thing year after year. The compulsory factor alone in work eventually makes people grow to resent it, not to mention having to endure daily interactions with colleagues or supervisors one would not normally choose to socialize with.
“In Play-Time, nothing’s mandatory. People do whatever they wish. There’s even a room for just sitting around. That quickly gets boring. Humans want activity – just not the same activity over and over again, although it’s true, some of our employees do regularly frequent the same Playrooms. Most however, prefer variety.
“If you engage in productive activities you win Personal Points. For non-productive activities, you pay Personal Points. Either way the choice is vast and it’s amazing when you explore the Playrooms, how many productive activities you can discover, which are interesting, exciting, illuminating and satisfying.”
“Along with many which aren’t,” said Jo.
“You don’t have to do the ones that don’t appeal. Others will find them interesting, or be happy to take them on for an hour or two to win some Personal Points. Can you see that when it comes to defining work and play, neither the type of activity nor the time one spends on it, is relevant to the definition? The only difference between the two is that play is optional and as varied as the player wishes. Work is mandatory and repetitive.
“Put that way,” Jo said, “I guess your Play-Time isn’t work, which is just as well, since your Work-Time sounds horrible.”
“It is,” Fitani admitted. “But at least it’s short. In your world mandatory, repetitive work consumes eight to twelve hours of the day. Work-Time in my world consumes only four. In your world, those who can’t find work must endure a miserable standard of living. In mine, everyone works except the very young and the very old, and everyone is decently fed and housed.”
“If things are going so well in your society, I don’t understand why you can’t forgive and forget when it comes to the people of mine.”
Fitani frowned. “You’re the one forgetting that your world has deprived us of the most precious thing human beings can have – freedom to roam. We have no weekends or holidays as there’s nowhere for us to go. Employees can only visit other Safe Places virtually. The few heavily shielded vehicles that make the dangerous journeys between Safe Places do so for the sole purpose of transporting goods.
“An employee’s physical movement is restricted to the silos and the Edge. From that day in our childhood when we realize this, we live our lives with an aching desire to break free of our confines… with nowhere to go.”
Jo put her knife and fork together on the empty plate and spoke cautiously. “You know, even from the little I’ve learnt about your world, I’m starting to doubt that. In fact I’m thinking you may well have reached a stage in your history where change is possible.”
“What on earth can you mean by that?” said Fitani angrily.
She eyed the bowl of muesli opposite. There may be no opportunity for lunch. Swapping her plate for the cereal bowl, she poured creamy milk over the muesli. Fitani, waiting, grew progressively grimmer and redder.
Finally Jo spoke, choosing her words carefully. “Your people have lived with their situation for so long, it’s easy to see how they could come to believe that in their own lifetimes at least, there was no way out. As much as you guys crave open spaces, you’re comfortable with your lifestyle. When you’re comfortable, you miss opportunities for change, or find it too scary to grab opportunities you see.”
“So, we’re disparaging my people now?” Fitani mocked.
“Not at all, I’m blown away by how well you’ve done in the survival stakes. But I’m looking at your situation with fresh eyes, and seeing things that apparently aren’t obvious to you guys.”
“So you will now give us the benefit of your great wisdom?” said Fitani.
Jo laughed. “I have no great wisdom. I haven’t been around nearly long enough to earn my ‘Sage Certificate’. But from where I’m standing there seems to be a clear path to achieving what you crave, so maybe it’s time you were honest with yourselves and decided whether you truly want change. If the answer is yes, then the first step would be to take a fresh look at things.”
“Huh,” said Fitani. “A teaser without substance.”
Jo dipped her spoon into the muesli. “If you choose to take it that way.”
“I suppose now you’ve figured us out,” he continued snidely, “you’re no longer interested in learning about our Work-Time?”
“Oh but I am,” said Jo. “I can’t wait to learn how you clean the Earth. Please continue.”
~~~~
CHAPTER 20
“Very well,” agreed Fitani, sulkily. “From twelve years of age until seventy, every employee works. Only certified illness allows you to miss Work-Time, which as you know, is a mere four hours. The work however is arduous – summer and winter, sometimes under lights in the dark depending on your shift, and employees return exhausted.”
Jo munched, her eyes glued to Fitani.
“Work-Time is the only occasion we wear clothing, and no one ever gets used to the harsh heavy material of the protective suits. The science Playrooms have improved them over the years, but as lead must always be a component, everyone’s worn out after working in the suits for four hours.”
She tried to imagine four hours of manual labor in a lead-lined suit and shuddered.
“At the beginning of Work-Time, employees wait at the pick-up areas outside each silo and take the automated transport trucks over no-man’s land to the black lands. Here they join the line.”
“That line of people in white I saw on your holographic map?”
Fitani nodded. “Though our Safe Place was spared from direct hits during the Great Destru
ction, the land around us was charred and covered in radioactive fallout. Over the years, rainfall washed it into the soil and it currently goes down about a meter and a half. In some places, due to cracks in the Earth or the particular composition of the soil, the radioactivity goes deeper. Machines follow the workers, removing the top two meters of soil and transporting it back to no-man’s land for cleaning.
“I don’t understand how it can be cleaned,” said Jo. “I thought it was impossible to neutralize radioactivity.”
“Correct,” agreed Fitani, “and we don’t neutralize the radioactivity. We extract the radioactive elements from the soil and store them safely.”
Jo looked at him skeptically.
“It’s a simple process,” he said. “Attrition machines break down the contaminated soil and clay to fine granules. Those granules are then fed in a controlled stream through the extraction machines.”
“Whose technology, I suppose, is too difficult for me to understand,” said Jo.
“No, the principle is quite straightforward. The extraction machines contain metal-binding chemical compounds mixed with pressurized, heated carbon dioxide.
“Under heat and pressure, carbon dioxide becomes liquid-like. It flows through the granules and the metal-binders pull the radioactive compounds into its stream. The stream is then shunted into a secure canister and depressurized to return it to a gaseous state, which causes the radioactive compounds to drop out.
“The process is called supercritical fluid extraction and has been around since before your time, when it was used for things like extracting asphalt from oil and decaffeinating coffee. In your time they’d begun experimenting with it to extract plutonium from soil, with some success. Naturally our methods are much more refined and our success rate is a hundred percent.”
“So you can clean the Earth,” said Jo in wonderment. “But I don’t understand then why you need that line of people.”
Her watch read 9.15, the time she’d arranged to meet George. Waving to a waiter across the room, she mimed signing a bill before turning to Fitani.
