Classic Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories

by Stephen Brennan

  Turning back I now encountered men coming out of the dining hall in which I had first witnessed the meal in progress. I wanted to ask questions and yet was a little afraid. But these big fellows were seemingly quite respectful; except when I started to enter the Free Speech Hall, they had humbly made way for me. Emboldened by their deference I now approached a man whom I had seen come out of a “3800 Calories” gate, and who had crossed the street and stood there picking his teeth with his finger nail.

  He ceased this operation as I approached and was about to step aside. But I paused and smiled at him, much, I fear, as one smiles at a dog of unknown disposition, for I could hardly feel that this ungainly creature was exactly human. He smiled back and stood waiting.

  “Perhaps, I stammered,” you will tell me about your system of eating; it seems very interesting.”

  “I eat thirty-eight,” he grinned, “pretty good, yes? I am twenty-five years old and not so tall either.”

  I eyed him up—my eyes came just to the top button of his jacket.

  “I began thirty,” continued the workman, “I came up one almost every year, one year I came up two at once. Pretty good, yes? One more to come.”

  “What then?” I asked.

  The big fellow smiled with a childish pride, and doubling up his arm, as huge as an average man’s thigh, he patted his biceps. “I get it all right. I pass examination, no flaws in me, never been to hospital, not one day. Yes, I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Paternity,” said the man in a lower voice, as he glanced about to see if any of his fellows was listening. “Paternity, you know? Women!”

  I thought of many questions but feared to ask them. The worker waited for some men to pass, then he bent over me, grinning sardonically. “Did you see them? You have seen women, yes?”

  “Yes,” I ventured, “I have seen women.”

  “Pretty good, beautiful, yes?”

  “Yes,” I stammered, “they are very beautiful.” But I was getting nervous and moved away. The workman, hesitating a little, then followed at my side.

  “But tell me,” I said, “about these calories. What did you do to get the big meals? Why do some get more to eat than others?”

  “Better man,” he replied without hesitation.

  “But what makes a better man?”

  “You don’t know; of course, you are an intellectual and don’t work. But we work hard. The harder we work the more we eat. I load aluminum pigs on the elevator. One pig is two calories, nineteen hundred pigs a day, pretty good, yes? All kind of work has its calories, so many for each thing to do.

  “More work, more food it takes to do it. They say all is alike, that no one can get fat. But all work calories are not alike because some men get fatter than others. I don’t get fat; my work is hard. I ought to get two and a half calories for each pig I load. Still I do not get thin, but I do not play hard in gymnasium, see? Those lathe men, they got it too easy and they play hard in gymnasium. I don’t care if you do report. I got it mad at them; they got it too easy. One got paternity last year already, and he is not as good a man as I am. I could throw him over my shoulder in wrestling. Do you not think they get it too easy?”

  “Do the men like this system,” I asked; “the measuring of food by the amount of work one does? Do any of them talk about it and demand that all be fed alike?”

  “The skinny minimum eaters do,” said the workman with a sneer, “when we let them talk, which isn’t often, but when they get a chance they talk Bellamism. But what if they do talk, it does them no good. We have a red flag, we have Imperial Socialism; we have the House of Hohenzollern. Well, then, I say, let them talk if they want to, every man must eat according to his work; that is socialism. We can’t have Bellamism when we have socialism.”

  This speech, so much more informative and evidencing a knowledge I had not anticipated, quite disturbed me. “You talk about these things,” I ventured, “in your Free Speech Halls?”

  The hitherto pleasant face of the workingman altered to an ugly frown.

  “No you don’t,” he growled, “you don’t think because I talk to you, that you can go asking me what is not your right to know, even if you are an officer?”

  I remained discreetly silent, but continued to walk at the side of the striding giant. Presently I asked:

  “What do you do now, are you going to work?”

  “No,” he said, looking at me doubtfully, “that was dinner, not breakfast. I am going now to the picture hall.”

  “And then,” I asked, “do you go to bed?”

  “No,” he said, “we then go to the gymnasium or the gaming tables. Six hours’ work, six hours’ sleep, and four hours for amusement.”

  “And what do you do,” I asked, “the remainder of the day?”

  He turned and stared at me. “That is all we get here, sixteen hours. This is the metal workers’ level. Some levels get twenty hours. It depends on the work.”

  “But,” I said, “a real day has twenty-four hours.”

  “I’ve heard,” he said, “that it does on the upper levels.”

  “But,” I protested, “I mean a real day—a day of the sun. Do you understand that?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, “we see the pictures of the Place in the Sun. That’s a fine show.”

  “Oh,” I said, “then you have pictures of the sun?”

  “Of course,” he replied, “the sun that shines upon the throne. We all see that.”

  At the time I could not comprehend this reference, but I made bold to ask if it were forbidden me to go to his picture hall.

  “I can’t make out,” he said, “why you want to see, but I never heard of any order forbidding it.

  “I go here,” he remarked, as we came to a picture theatre.

  I let my Herculean companion enter alone, but followed him shortly and found a seat in a secluded corner. No one disputed my presence.

  The music that filled the hall from some hidden horn was loud and, in a rough way, joyous. The pictures—evidently carefully prepared for such an audience—were limited to the life that these men knew. The themes were chiefly of athletic contests, of boxing, wrestling and feats of strength. There were also pictures of working contests, always ending by the awarding of honours by some much bespangled official. But of love and romance, of intrigue and adventure, of pathos and mirth, these pictures were strangely devoid,—there was, in fact, no woman’s likeness cast upon the screen and no pictures depicting emotion or sentiment.

  As I watched the sterile flittings of the picture screen I decided, despite the glimmering of intelligence that my talking Hercules had shown in reference to socialism and Bellamism and the secrets of the Free Speech Halls, that these men were merely great stupid beasts of burden.

  They worked, they fed, they drank, they played exuberantly in their gymnasiums and swimming pools, they played long and eagerly at games of chance. Beyond this their lives were essentially blank. Ambition and curiosity they had none beyond the narrow circle of their round of living. But for all that they were docile, contented and, within their limitations, not unhappy. To me they seemed more and more to be like well cared for domestic animals, and I found myself wondering, as I left the hall, why we of the outer world had not thought to produce pictures in similar vein to entertain our dogs and horses.

  5

  As I returned to my own quarters, I tried to recall the description I had read of the “Children of the Abyss,” the dwellers in ancient city slums. There was a certain kinship, no doubt, between those former submerged workers in the democratic world and this labour breed of Berlin. Yet the enslaved and sweated workers of the old regime were always depicted as suffering from poverty, as undersized, ill-nourished and afflicted with disease. The reformers of that day were always talking of sanitary housing, scientific diet and physical efficiency. But here was a race of labourers whose physical welfare was as well taken care of as if they had been prize swine or oxen. There was a paleness of countenance a
mong these labourers of Berlin that to me seemed suggestive of ill health, but I knew that was merely due to lack of sun and did not signify a lack of physical vitality. Mere sun-darkened skin does not mean physiological efficiency, else the negro were the most efficient of races. Men can live without sun, without rain, without contact with the soil, without nature’s greenery and the brotherhood of fellow species in wild haunts. The whole climb of civilization had been away from these primitive things. It had merely been an artificial perfecting of the process of giving the living creature that which is needed for sustenance and propagation in the most concentrated and most economical form, the elimination of Nature’s superfluities and wastes.

  As I thought of these things it came over me that this unholy imprisonment of a race was but the logical culmination of mechanical and material civilization. This development among the Germans had been hastened by the necessities of war and siege, yet it was what the whole world had been driving toward since man first used a tool and built a hut. Our own freer civilization of the outer world had been achieved only by compromises, by a stubborn resistance against the forces to which we ascribed our progress. We were merely not so completely civilized, because we had never been wholly domesticated.

  As I now record these thoughts on the true significance of the perfected civilization of the Germans I realize that I was even more right than I then knew, for the sunless city of Berlin is of a truth a civilization gone to seed, its people are a domesticated species, they are the logical outcome of science applied to human affairs, with them the prodigality and waste of Nature have been eliminated, they have stamped out contagious diseases of every kind, they have substituted for the laws of Nature the laws that man may pick by scientific theory and experiment from the multitude of possibilities. Yes, the Germans were civilized. And as I pondered these things I recalled those fairy tales that naturalists tell of the stagnant and fixed society of ants in their subterranean catacombs. These insect species credited for industry and intelligence, have in their lesser world reached a similar perfection of civilization. Ants have a royal house, they have a highly specialized and fixed system of caste, a completely socialized state—yes, a Utopia—even as Berlin was a Utopia, with the light of the sun and the light of the soul, the soul of the wild free man, forever shut out. Yes, I was walking in Utopia, a nightmare at the end of man’s long dream—Utopia—Black Utopia—City of Endless Night—diabolically compounded of the three elements of civilization in which the Germans had always been supreme—imperialism, science and socialism.

  THE BLIND SPOT

  Austin Hall and Homer Eon Flint (1921)

  FRIENDS

  My name is Harry Wendel.

  I am an attorney and until recently boasted of a splendid practice and an excellent prospect for the future. I am still a young man; I have had a good education and still have friends and admirers. Such being the case, you no doubt wonder why I give a past reference to my practice and what the future might have held for me. Listen:

  I might as well start ‘way back. I shall do it completely and go back to the fast-receding time of childhood.

  There is a recollection of childish disaster. I had been making strenuous efforts to pull the tail out of the cat that I might use it for a feather duster. My desire was supreme logic. I could not understand objection; the cat resisted for certain utilitarian reasons of its own and my mother through humane sympathy. I had been scratched and spanked in addition: it was the first storm centre that I remember. I had been punished but not subdued. At the first opportunity, I stole out of the house and onto the lawn that stretched out to the pavement.

  I remember the day. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and everything was green with springtime. For a minute I stood still and blinked in the sunlight. It was beautiful and soft and balmy; the world at full exuberance; the buds upon the trees, the flowers, and the songbirds singing. I could not understand it. It was so beautiful and soft. My heart was still beating fiercely, still black with perversity and stricken rancour. The world had no right to be so. I hated with the full rush of childish anger.

  And then I saw.

  Across the street coming over to meet me was a child of my age. He was fat and chubby, a mass of yellow curls and laughter; when he walked he held his feet out at angles as is the manner of fat boys and his arms away from his body. I slid off the porch quietly. Here was something that could suffer for the cat and my mother. At my rush he stopped in wonder. I remember his smiling face and my anger. In an instant I had him by the hair and was biting with all the fury of vindictiveness.

  At first he set up a great bawl for assistance. He could not understand; he screamed and held his hands aloft to keep them out of my reach. Then he tried to run away. But I had learned from the cat that had scratched me. I clung on, biting, tearing. The shrill of his scream was music: it was conflict, sweet and delicious; it was strife, swift as instinct.

  At last I stopped him; he ceased trying to get away and began to struggle. It was better still; it was resistance. But he was stronger than I; though I was quicker he managed to get my by the shoulders, to force me back, and finally to upset me. Then in the stolid way, and after the manner of fat boys, he sat upon my chest. When our startled mothers came upon the scene they so found us—I upon my back, clinching my teeth and threatening all the dire fates of childhood, and he waiting either for assistance or until my ire should retire sufficiently to allow him to release me in safety.

  “Who did it? Who started it?”

  That I remember plainly.

  “Hobart, did you do this?” The fat boy backed off quietly and clung to his mother; but he did not answer.

  “Hobart, did you start this?”

  Still no answer.

  “Harry, this was you; you started it. Didn’t you try to hurt Hobart?”

  I nodded.

  My mother took me by the hand and drew me away.

  “He is a rascal, Mrs. Fenton, and has a temper like sin; but he will tell the truth, thank goodness.”

  I am telling this not for the mere relation, but by way of introduction. It was my first meeting with Hobart Fenton. It is necessary that you know us both and our characters. Our lives are so entwined and so related that without it you could not get the gist of the story. In the afternoon I came across the street to play with Hobart. He met me smiling. It was not in his healthy little soul to hold resentment. I was either all smiles or anger. I forgot as quickly as I battled. That night there were two happy youngsters tucked into the bed and covers.

  So we grew up; one with the other. We played as children do and fought as boys have done from the beginning. I shall say right now that the fights were mostly my fault. I started them one and all; and if every battle had the same beginning it likewise had the same ending. The first fight was but the forerunner of all the others.

  Please do not think hardly of Hobart. He is the kindest soul in the world; there never was a truer lad nor a kinder heart. He was strong, healthy, fat, and, like fat boys, forever laughing. He followed me into trouble and when I was retreating he valiantly defended the rear. Stronger, sturdier, and slower, he has been a sort of protector from the beginning. I have called him the Rear Guard; and he does not resent it.

  I have always been in mischief, restless, and eager for anything that would bring quick action; and when I got into deep water Hobart would come along, pluck me out and pull me to shore and safety. Did you ever see a great mastiff and a fox terrier running together? It is a homely illustration; but an apt one.

  We were boys together, with our delights and troubles, joys and sorrows. I thought so much of Hobart that I did not shirk stooping to help him take care of his baby sister. That is about the supreme sacrifice of a boy’s devotion. In after years, of course, he has laughed at me and swears I did it on purpose. I do not know, but I am willing to admit that I think a whole lot of that sister.

  Side by side we grew up and into manhood. We went to school and into college. Even as we were at
odds in our physical builds and our dispositions, so were we in our studies. From the beginning Hobart has had a mania for screws, bolts, nuts, and pistons. He is practical; he likes mathematics; he can talk to you from the binomial theorem up into Calculus; he is never so happy as when the air is buzzing with a conversation charged with induction coils, alternating currents, or atomic energy. The whole swing and force of popular science is his kingdom. I will say for Hobart that he is just about in line to be king of it all. Today he is in South America, one of our greatest engineers. He is bringing the water down from the Andes; and it is just about like those strong shoulders and that good head to restore the land of the Incas.

  About myself? I went into the law. I enjoy an atmosphere of strife and contention. I liked books and discussion and I thought that I would like the law. On the advice of my elders I entered law college, and in due time was admitted to practice. It was while studying to qualify that I first ran into philosophy. I was a lad to enjoy quick, pithy, epigrammatic statements. I have always favoured a man who hits from the shoulder. Professor Holcomb was a man of terse, heavy thinking; he spoke what he thought and he did not quibble. He favoured no one.

  I must confess that the old white-haired professor left his stamp upon me. I loved him like all the rest; though I was not above playing a trick on the old fellow occasionally. Still he had a wit of his own and seldom came out second best, and when he lost out he could laugh like the next one. I was deeply impressed by him. As I took course after course under him I was convinced that for all of his dry philosophy the old fellow had a trick up his sleeve; he had a way of expounding that was rather startling; likewise, he had a scarcely concealed contempt for some of the demigods of our old philosophy.