There was something sinister in these metal informers, but there was also something heartening. The juveniles did not accuse; they only reported what they heard and saw. They couldn’t color their information and they couldn’t make it up. Since the victim was indicted mechanically he was safe from hysterical hearsay, from malice and paranoia. But there could be no question of guilt; the evidence was already in. The issue to be settled here was merely the severity of moral lapse. The victim couldn’t protest that he had been unjustly accused; all he could protest was his bad luck at having been overheard.
On the platform Mrs. Birmingham held the agenda and looked to see if everybody had arrived. Failure to arrive was in itself a lapse. Apparently he and Janet completed the group; Mrs. Birmingham signalled, and the meeting began.
“I guess we don’t get to sit,” Janet murmured, as the door closed after them. Her face was pinched with anxiety; for her the weekly block meeting was a catastrophe which she met with hopelessness and despair. Each week she anticipated denouncement and downfall, but it never came. Years had gone by, and she had still not officially erred. But that only convinced her that doom was saving itself up for one grand spree.
“When they call me,” Allen said softly, “you keep your mouth shut. Don’t get in on either side. The less said the better chance I have.”
She glared at him with suffering. “They’ll tear you apart. Look at them.” She swept in the whole room. “They’re just waiting to get at somebody.”
“Most of them are bored and wish they were out.” As a matter of fact, several men were reading their morning newspapers. “So take it easy. If nobody leaps to defend me it’ll die down and maybe I’ll get off with a verbal reprimand.” Assuming, of course, that nothing was in about the statue.
“We will first undertake the case of Miss J.E.,” Mrs. Birmingham stated. Miss J.E. was Julie Ebberley, and everybody in the room knew her. Julie had been up time and again, but somehow she managed to hang onto the lease willed her by her family. Scared and wide-eyed, she now mounted the defendant’s stage, a young blond-haired girl with long legs and an intriguing bosom. Today she wore a modest print dress and low-heeled slippers. Her hair was tied back in a girlish knot.
“Miss J.E.,” Mrs. Birmingham declared, “did willingly and knowingly on the night of October 6, 2114, engage with a man in a vile enterprise.”
In most cases a “vile enterprise” was sex. Allen half-closed his eyes and prepared to endure the session. A shuffling murmur ran through the room; the newspapers were put aside. Apathy dwindled. To Allen this was the offensive part: the leering need to hear a confession down to the last detail—a need which masqueraded as righteousness.
The first question came instantly. “Was this the same man as the other times?”
Miss J.E. colored. “Y-Yes,” she admitted.
“Weren’t you warned? Hadn’t you been told in this very room to get yourself home at a decent hour and act like a good girl?”
In all probability this was now a different questioner. The voice was synthetic, issuing from a wall speaker. To preserve the aura of justice, questions were piped through a common channel, broken down and reassembled without characteristic timbre. The result was an impersonal accuser, who, when a sympathetic questioner appeared, became suddenly and a little oddly a defender.
“Let’s hear what this ‘vile enterprise’ was,” Allen said, and, as always, was revolted to hear his voice boom out dead and characterless. “This may be a furor about nothing.”
On the platform Mrs. Birmingham peered distastefully down, seeking to identify the questioner. Then she read from the summary. “Miss J.E. did willingly in the bathtub of the community bathroom of her housing unit—this unit—copulate.”
“I’d call that something,” the voice said, and then the dogs were loose. The accusations fell thick and fast, a blur of lascivious racket.
Beside Allen his wife huddled against him. He could feel her dread and he put his arm around her. In awhile the voice would be tearing at him.
At nine-fifteen the faction vaguely defending Miss J.E. seemed to have gained an edge. After a conference the council of block wardens released the girl with an oral reprimand, and she slipped gratefully from the room. Mrs. Birmingham again arose with the agenda.
With relief Allen heard his own initials. He walked forward, listening to the charges, glad to get it over with. The juvenile—thank God—had reported about as expected.
“Mr. A.P.,” Mrs. Birmingham declared, “did on the night of October 7, 2114, at 11:30 P.M., arrive home in a drunken state and did fall on the front steps of the housing unit and in so doing utter a morally objectionable word.”
Allen climbed the stage, and the session began.
There was always the danger that somewhere in the room a citizen waited with a deeply-buried quirk, a deposit of hate nourished and hoarded for just such an occasion as this. During the years that he had leased in this housing unit Allen might easily have slighted some nameless soul; the human mind being what it was, he might have set off a tireless vengeance by stepping ahead in line, failing to nod, treading on foot, or the like.
But as he looked around he saw no special emotion. Nobody glowered demonically, and nobody, except for his stricken wife, even appeared interested.
Considering the shallowness of the charge he had good reason to feel optimistic. All in all, he was well off. Realizing this, he faced his composite accuser cheerfully.
“Mr. Purcell,” it said, “you haven’t been up before us in quite a spell.” It corrected: “Mr. A.P., I meant.”
“Not for several years,” he answered.
“How much had you had to drink?”
“Three glasses of wine.”
“And you were drunk on that?” The voice answered itself: “That’s the indictment.” It haggled, and then a clear question emerged. “Where did you get drunk?”
Not wishing to volunteer material, Allen kept his answer brief. “At Hokkaido.” Mrs. Birmingham was aware of that, so evidently it didn’t matter.
“What were you doing there?” the voice asked, and then it said: “That’s not relevant. That has nothing to do with it. Stick to the facts. What he did before he was drunk doesn’t matter.”
To Allen it sounded like Janet. He let it battle on.
“Of course it matters. The importance of the act depends on the motives behind it. Did he mean to get drunk? Nobody means to get drunk. I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
Allen said: “It was on an empty stomach, and I’m not used to liquor in any form.”
“What about the word he used? Yes, what about it? Well, we don’t even know what it was. I think we’re just as well off. Why, are you convinced he’s the sort of man who would use words ‘like that’? All I mean is that knowing the particular word doesn’t affect the situation.”
“And I was tired,” Allen added. Years of work with media had taught him the shortest routes to the Morec mind. “Although it was Sunday I had spent the day at the office. I suppose I did more than was good for my health, but I like to have my desk clear on Monday.”
“A regular little gentleman,” the voice said. It retorted at once: “With manners enough to keep personalities out of this. Bravo,” it said. “That’s telling him. Probably her.” And then, from the chaos of minds, a sharp sentiment took shape. As nearly as Allen could tell, it was one person. “This a mockery is. Mr. Purcell is one of our most distinguished members. As most of us know, Mr. Purcell’s Agency supplies a good deal of the material used by Telemedia. Are we supposed to believe that a man involved in the maintenance of society’s ethical standards is, himself, morally defective? What does that say about our society in general? This a paradox is. It is just such high-minded men, devoted to public service, who set by their own examples our standards of conduct.”
Surprised, Allen peered across the room at his wife. Janet seemed bewildered. And the choice of words was not characteristic of her. Evidently it was somebody else.
“Mr. Purcell’s family leased here several decades,” the voice continued. “Mr. Purcell was born here. During his lifetime many persons have come and gone. Few of us have maintained a lease as long as he has. How many of us were here in this room before Mr. Purcell? Think that over. The purpose of these sessions is not the humbling of the mighty. Mr. Purcell isn’t up there so we can deride and ridicule him. Some of us seem to imagine the more respectable a person is the more reason to attack him. When we attack Mr. Purcell we attack our better selves. And there’s no percentage in that.”
Allen felt embarrassed.
“These meetings,” the voice went on, “operate on the idea that a man is morally responsible to his community. That’s a good idea. But his community is also morally responsible to him. If it’s going to ask him to come up and confess his sins, it’s got to give him something in return. It’s got to give him its respect and support. It should realize that having a citizen like Mr. Purcell up here is a privilege. Mr. Purcell’s life is devoted to our welfare and the improvement of our society. If he wants to drink three glasses of wine once in his life and say one morally objectionable word, I think he should be allowed to. It’s okay by me.”
There was silence. The roomful of people was cowed by piety. Nobody dared speak.
On the stage, Allen sat wishing somebody would attack. His embarrassment had become shame. The eulogizer was making a mistake; he didn’t have the full picture.
“Wait a minute,” Allen protested. “Let’s get one thing straight. What I did was wrong. I haven’t got any more right to get drunk and blaspheme than anybody else.”
The voice said: “Let’s pass on to the next case. There doesn’t seem to be anything here.”
On the platform the middle-aged ladies conferred, and presently composed their verdict. Mrs. Birmingham arose.
“The block-neighbors of Mr. A.P. take this opportunity to reprimand him for his conduct of the night of October 7, but feel that in view of his excellent prior record no disciplinary action is indicated. You may step down, Mr. A.P.”
Allen stepped down and rejoined his wife. Janet squeezed against him, wildly happy. “Bless him, whoever he was.”
“I don’t deserve it,” Allen said, disturbed.
“You do. Of course you do.” Her eyes shone recklessly. “You’re a wonderful person.”
Not far off, at one of the tables, was a mild little elderly fellow with thinning gray hair and a formal, set smile. Mr. Wales glanced at Allen, then turned immediately away.
“That’s the guy,” Allen decided. “Wales.”
“Are you sure?”
The next accused was up on the stage, and Mrs. Birmingham began reading the indictment. “Mrs. R.M. did knowingly and willing on the afternoon of October 9, 2114, in a public place and in the presence of both men and women, take the name of the Lord in vain.”
The voice said: “What a waste of time.” And the controversy was on.
After the meeting Allen approached Wales. The man had lingered outside the door, as if expecting him. Allen had noticed him in the hall a few times, but he didn’t recall ever having said more than good morning to him.
“That was you,” Allen said.
They shook hands. “I’m glad I could help you out, Mr. Purcell.” Wales’ voice was drab, perfectly ordinary. “I saw you speak up for that girl. You always look out for the people up there. I said, if he ever gets up I’ll do the same for him. We all like and respect you, Mr. Purcell.”
“Thanks,” Allen said awkwardly.
As he and Janet walked back upstairs, Janet said: “What’s the matter?” She was in a delirium at having escaped from the meeting. “Why do you look so glum?”
“I feel glum,” he said.
8
Doctor Malparto said: “Good morning, Mr. Coates. Please take off your coat and sit down. I want you to be comfortable.”
And then he felt strange and ill, because the man facing him was not “Mr. Coates” but Allen Purcell. Hurriedly getting to his feet Malparto excused himself and went out into the corridor. He was shaking with excitement. Behind him, Purcell looked vaguely puzzled, a tall, good-looking, rather overly-serious man in his late twenties, wearing a heavy overcoat. Here he was, the man Malparto had been expecting. But he hadn’t expected him so soon.
With his key he unlocked his file and brought out Purcell’s dossier. He glanced over the contents as he returned to his office. The report was as cryptic as before. Here was his prized-gram, and the irreducible syndrome remained. Malparto sighed with delight.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Purcell,” he said, closing the door after him. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
His patient frowned and said: “Let’s keep it ‘Coates.’ Or has that old wheeze about professional confidence gone by the boards?”
“Mr. Coates, then.” Malparto reseated himself and put on his glasses. “Mr. Coates, I’ll be frank. I’ve been expecting you. Your encephalogram came into my hands a week or so ago, and I had a Dickson report drawn on it. The profile is unique. I’m very much interested in you, and it’s a matter of deep personal satisfaction to be permitted to handle your—” He coughed. “Problem.” He had started to say case.
In the comfortable leather-covered chair, Mr. Coates shifted restlessly. He lit a cigarette, scowled, rubbed at the crease of his trousers. “I need help. It’s one of the drawbacks of Morec that nobody gets help; they get cast out as defective.”
Malparto nodded in agreement.
“Also,” Mr. Coates said, “your sister came after me.”
To Malparto this discouraging was. Not only had Gretchen meddled, but she had meddled wisely. Mr. Coates would have appeared eventually, but Gretchen had sawed the interval in half. He wondered what she got out of it.
“Didn’t you know that?” Mr. Coates asked.
He decided to be honest. “No, I didn’t. But it’s of no consequence.” He rattled through the report. “Mr. Coates, I’d like you to tell me in your own words what you feel your problem is.”
“Job problems.”
“In particular?”
Mr. Coates chewed his lip. “Director of T-M. It was offered to me this Monday.”
“You’re currently operating an independent Research Agency?” Malparto consulted his notes. “When do you have to decide?”
“By the day after tomorrow.”
“Very interesting.”
“Isn’t it?” Mr. Coates said.
“That doesn’t give you long. Do you feel you can decide?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
His patient hesitated.
“Are you worried that a juvenile might be hiding in my closet?” Malparto smiled reassuringly. “This is the only spot in our blessed civilization where juveniles are forbidden.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“A fluke of history. It seems that Major Streiter’s wife had a predilection for psychoanalysts. A Fifth Avenue Jungian cured her partially-paralyzed right arm. You know her type.”
Mr. Coates nodded.
“So,” Malparto said, “when the Committee Government was set up and the land was nationalized, we were permitted to keep our deeds. We—that is, the Psych Front left over from the war. Streiter was a canny person. Unusual ability. He saw the necessity—”
Mr. Coates said: “Sunday night somebody pulled a switch in my head. So I japed the statue of Major Streiter. That’s why I can’t accept the T-M directorship.”
“Ah,” Malparto said, and his eyes fastened on the -gram with its irreducible core. He had a sensation of hanging head downward over an ocean; his lungs seemed filled with dancing foam. Carefully he removed his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.
Beyond his office window lay the city, flat except for the Morec spire set dead-center. The city radiated in concentric zones, careful lines and swirls that intersected in an orderly manner. Across the planet, Doctor Malparto thought. Like the hide of a vast mammal half-submerged in
mud. Half-buried in the drying clay of a stern and puritanical morality.
“You were born here,” he said. In his hands was the information, the history of his patient; he leafed through the pages.
“We all were,” Mr. Coates said.
“You met your wife in the colonies. What were you doing on Bet-4?”
His patient said: “Supervising a packet. I was consultant to the old Wing-Miller Agency. I wanted a packet rooted in the experience of the agricultural colonists.”
“You liked it there?”
“In a way. It was like the frontier. I remember a whitewashed board farmhouse. That was her family’s…her father’s.” He was quiet a moment. “He and I used to argue. He edited a small-town newspaper. All night—arguing and drinking coffee.”
“Did—” Malparto consulted the dossier. “Did Janet participate?”
“Not much. She listened. I think she was afraid of her father. Maybe a little afraid of me.”
“You were twenty-five?”
“Yes,” Mr. Coates said. “Janet was twenty-two.”
Malparto, reading the information, said: “Your own father was dead. Your mother was alive, still, was she not?”
“She died in 2111,” Mr. Coates said. “Not much later.”
Malparto put on his video and audio tape transports. “May I keep a record of what we say?”
His patient pondered. “You might as well. You’ve got me anyhow.”
“In my power? Like a wizard? Hardly. I’ve got your problem; by telling me you’ve transferred it to me.”
Mr. Coates seemed to relax. “Thanks,” he said.
“Consciously,” Malparto said, “you don’t know why you japed the statue; the motive is buried down deep. In all probability the statue episode forms part of a larger event—stretching, perhaps, over years. We’ll never be able to understand it alone; its meaning lies in the circumstances preceding it.”
His patient grimaced. “You’re the wizard.”
The Man Who Japed Page 5
