“That’ll deplete us,” Harry Priar pointed out.
“Sure. But it’s only for a week or so. Give our people the situation about me, see who’s willing to come. Then fill as best you can. A dozen should do. What about you personally?”
“I’ll work for you,” Priar said.
“I’m in big disfavor.”
Priar said: “When they ask, I’ll say you brainwashed me.”
Toward four in the afternoon the first trickle of Agency personnel began to show up. Gleeby interviewed each person and assigned him to a department. By the end of the day a make-shift working staff had been built up. Gleeby was optimistic.
“These are policy-making people,” he said to Allen. “And they’re used to working with you. We can trust them, too. Which good is. I suppose the Committee has a few of its creatures lurking around. Want us to set up some sort of loyalty review board?”
“Not important,” Allen said. “As long as we see the finished products.” He had studied the statement of projections in process; some were now scratched off, some had been put ahead, and most had been rerouted into dead-ends. The assembly lines were open and functioning, ready to undertake fresh material.
“What’s that?” Gleeby asked, as Allen brought out sheets of lined paper.
“My preliminary sketches. What’s the normal span required from first stage to last?”
“Well,” Gleeby said, “say a packet is approved on Monday. Usually we take anywhere from a month to five months, depending on the medium it’s to be projected over.”
“Jesus,” Allen said.
“It can be cut. For topical stuff we prune down to—” He computed. “Say, two weeks.”
Allen turned to Harry Priar, who stood listening. “How’s that strike you?”
“By the time you’re out of here,” Priar said, “you won’t have one item done.”
“I agree,” Allen said. “Gleeby, to be on the safe side we’ll have to prune to four days.”
“That only happened once,” Gleeby said, tugging at the lobe of his ear. “The day William Pease, Ida Pease Hoyt’s father, died. We had a huge projection, on all media, within twenty-four hours.”
“Even woven baskets?”
“Baskets, handbills, stenciled signs. The works.”
Priar asked: “Anybody else going to be with us? Or is this the total crew?”
“I have a couple more people,” Allen said. “I won’t be sure until tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “They’d be at the top, as original idea men.”
“Who are they?” Gleeby asked. “Anybody we know?”
“One of them is named Gates,” he said. “The other is a man named Sugermann.”
“Suppose I asked you what you’re going to do?”
Allen said: “I’d tell you. We’re going to do a jape on Major Streiter.”
He was with his wife when the first plug was aired. At his direction a portable TV receiver was set up in their one-room apartment. The time was twelve-thirty at night; most of Newer York was asleep.
“The transmitting antenna,” he told Janet, “is at the T-M building.” Gleeby had collected enough video technicians to put the transmitter—normally closed down at that hour—back on the air.
“You’re so excited,” Janet said. “I’m glad you’re doing this; it means so much to you.”
“I only hope we can pull it off,” he said, thinking about it.
“And afterward?” she said. “What happens then?”
“We’ll see,” he said. The plug was unfolding.
A background showed the ruins of the war, the aftermath of battle. The tattered rags of a settlement appeared; slow, halting motion of survivors creeping half-starved, half-baked through the rubble.
A voice said: “In the public interest a Telemedia discussion program will shortly deal with a problem of growing importance for our times. Participants will analyze the question: Should Major Streiter’s postwar policy of active assimilation be revived to meet the current threat? Consult your area log for time and date.”
The plug dissolved, carrying the ruins and desolation with it. Allen snapped off the TV set, and felt tremendous pride.
“What’d you think of it?” he asked Janet.
“Was that it?” She seemed disappointed. “There wasn’t much.”
“With variations, that plug will be repeated every half hour on all channels. Mavis’ hit ’em, hit ’em. Plus plants in the newspapers, mentions on all the news programs, and minor hints scattered over the other media.”
“I don’t remember, what ‘active assimilation’ was. And what’s this ‘current threat’?”
“By Monday you’ll have the whole story,” Allen said. “The slam will come on ‘Pageant of Time.’ I don’t want to spoil it for you.”
Downstairs on the public rack, he bought a copy of tomorrow’s newspaper, already distributed. There, on page one, in the left-hand column, was the plant developed by Sugermann and Priar.
TALK OF REVIVING ASSIMILATION
Newer York Oct 29 (T-M), It is reliably reported that a number of persons high in Committee circles who prefer to remain anonymous at this time, favor a revival of the postwar policy of active assimilation developed by Major Streiter to cope with the then-extensive threats to Moral Reclamation. Growing out of the current menace this revived interest in assimilation expresses the continued uneasiness of violence and lawlessness, as demonstrated by the savage assault on the Park of the Spire monument to Major Streiter. It is felt that the therapeutic method of Mental Health, and the efforts of the Mental Health Resort to cope with current instability and unrest, have failed to
Allen folded up the newspaper and went back upstairs to the apartment. Within a day or so the domino elements of the Morec society would be tipped. “Active assimilation” as a solution to the “current threat” would be the topic of discussion for everybody.
“Active assimilation” was his brain child. He had made it up. Sugermann had added the idea of the “current threat.” Between them they had created the topic out of whole cloth.
He felt well-pleased. Progress was being made.
22
By Monday morning the projection was complete. T-M workers, armed, carried it upstairs to the transmitter and stood guard over it. The Telemedia building was sealed off; nobody came and nobody went. During the day the hints, spots, mentions on various media dinned like pond frogs. Tension began to build, a sense of expectancy. The public was alive to the topic of “active assimilation,” although nobody knew what it meant.
“Opinion” Sugermann said, “runs about two to one in favor of restoring a cautious policy of active assimilation.” A poll had been taken, and the results were arriving.
“Active assimilation’s too good for those rascals,” Gates announced. “Let’s have no coddling of traitors.”
At a quarter of eight that evening, Allen assembled his staff in his office. The mood was one of optimism.
“Well,” Allen said, “it won’t be long. Another fifteen minutes and we’re on the air. Anybody feel like backing out?”
Everybody grinned inanely.
“Got your dismissal notice yet?” Gates asked him.
The notice, from the Committee, had arrived registered mail. Now Allen opened the envelope and read the brief, formal statement. He had until noon Thursday. Then he was no longer Director of Telemedia.
“Give me the story on the follow-ups,” he said to Gleeby.
“Pardon? Yes, um.” From a prepared list Gleeby read him the total projected coverage. “Up to now it’s been ground breakers. Tonight at eight comes the actual discussion. Tomorrow night a repeat of the discussion program will be aired, by ‘public demand.’”
“Better move that up,” Allen said. “Allows too much time for them to act.”
“Make it later tonight,” Sugermann suggested. “About ten, as they’re all popping into bed.”
Gleeby scribbled a few words. “We’ve already mailed out duplicate fil
ms to the colonies. The discussion has been written up and will be printed in full in Tuesday morning’s newspapers, plus comments pro and con. Late news programs tonight will give resumes. We’ve had the presses run off paper-bound copies to be sold in commissaries at magazine slots. Youth editions for school use have been prepared, but frankly, I don’t imagine we can distribute them in time. It’ll take another four days.”
“And the poll,” Sugermann added.
“Fine,” Allen said. “For less than a week that’s not bad.”
A T-M employee entered. “Mr. Purcell, something’s come up. Secretary Frost and Mrs. Hoyt are outside in a Committee Getabout. They want to be admitted.”
“Peace party,” Priar said.
“I’ll talk to them outside,” Allen said. “Show me where they are.”
The employee led him to the ground floor and outside through the barricade erected before the entrance. In the back seat of a small blue Getabout sat the two women, bolt-upright, their faces pinched. Ralf Hadler was behind the tiller. He pretended not to notice or in any way conceive of Allen. They were not in the same world.
“Hi,” Allen said.
Mrs. Hoyt said: “This unworthy is. I’m ashamed of you, Mr. Purcell. I really am.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” Allen said. “What else?”
“Would you have the decency to tell us what you’re doing?” Sue Frost demanded in a low, choked voice. She held up a newspaper. “‘Active assimilation.’ What in the name of heaven is this? Have you all completely lost your minds?”
“We have,” Allen admitted. “But I don’t see that it matters.”
“It’s a fabrication, isn’t it?” Sue Frost accused. “You’re inventing it all. This is some sort of horrible prank. If I didn’t know better I’d say you had a hand in the japery of Major Streiter’s statue; I’d say you’re involved in this whole outbreak of anarchistic and savage lawlessness.”
Her choice of words showed the potency of the campaign. It made him feel odd to hear her speaking right out of the plug.
“Now look,” Mrs. Hoyt said presently, in a tone of forced amiability. “If you’ll resign we’ll see that you regain your lease. You’ll be able to continue your Agency; you’ll be exactly where you were. We’ll prepare a guarantee, written, that Telemedia will buy from you.” She hesitated. “And we’ll undertake to expose Blake-Moffet for their part in the frame-up.”
Allen said: “Now I know I’m on the right track. And try to watch TV tonight; you’ll get the full story on ‘active assimilation.’”
Re-entering the building he halted to watch the blue Getabout steam away. Their offer had genuinely surprised him. It was amazing how much moral righteousness the breath of scandal could blow down. He ascended by the elevator and joined the group waiting in his office.
“Almost time,” Sugermann said, consulting his watch. “Five more minutes.”
“At a rough guess,” Gleeby said, “dominos representing seventy percent of the population will be watching. We should achieve an almost perfect saturation on this single airing.”
From a suitcase Gates produced two fifths of Scotch whiskey. “To celebrate,” he said, opening both. “Somebody get glasses. Or we can pass them around.”
The phone rang, and Allen answered it.
“Hello, Allen,” Myron Mavis’ creaky voice came. “How’re things going?”
“Absolutely perfect,” Allen answered. “Want to stop by and join us?”
“Sorry. Can’t. I’m bogged down in leaving. All my stuff to get packed for the trip to Sirius.”
“Try to catch the projection tonight,” Allen said. “It starts in a couple of minutes.”
“How’s Janet?”
“Seems to be feeling pretty fair. She’s glad it’s out in the open.” He added, “She’s watching at the apartment.”
“Say hello to her,” Mavis said. “And good luck on your lunacy.”
“Thanks,” Allen said. He said goodbye and hung up.
“Time,” Sugermann said. Gates turned on the big TV receiver and they gathered around it. “Here we go.”
“Here we go,” Allen agreed.
Mrs. Georgina Birmingham placed her favorite chair before her television set and anticipated her favorite program, “The Pageant of Time.” She was tired from the hectic activities of the day, but a deep spiritual residuum reminded her that work and sacrifice were their own reward.
On the screen was an inter-program announcement. A large decayed tooth was shown, grimacing with pain. Next to it a sparkling healthy tooth jeered sanctimoniously. The two teeth engaged in Socratic dialogue, the upshot of which was the rout and defeat of the bad tooth.
Mrs. Birmingham gladly endured the inter-program announcements because they were in a good cause. And the program, “Pageant of Time,” was well worth any reasonable effort. She always hurried home early on Monday evening; in ten years she hadn’t missed an edition.
A shower of brightly-colored fireworks burst across the screen, and from the speaker issued the rumble of guns. A jagged, slashing line of words cut through the blur of war:
THE PAGEANT OF TIME
Her program had begun. Folding her arms, leaning her head back, Mrs. Birmingham now found herself viewing a table at which sat four dignified gentlemen. A discussion was in progress, and dim words were audible. Over them was superimposed the announcer’s voice.
“Pageant of Time. Ladies and gentlemen, at this table sit four men, each a distinguished authority in his field. They had come together to discuss an issue vital to every citizen of the Morec society. In view of the unusual importance of this program there will be no interruptions, and the discussion, which is already in progress, will proceed without pause until the end of the hour. Our topic for tonight…” Visible words grew on the screen.
ACTIVE ASSIMILATION IN THE WORLD TODAY
Mrs. Birmingham was delighted. She had been hearing about active assimilation for some time, and this was her opportunity to learn once and for all what it was. Her lack of information had made her feel out of touch.
“Seated at my right is Doctor Joseph Gleeby, the noted educator, lecturer, writer of numerous books on problems of social values.” A lean middle-aged man, smoking a pipe and rubbing his ear, was shown. “To Doctor Gleeby’s right is Mr. Harold Priar, art critic, architect, frequent contributor to the Encyclopedia Britannica.” A smaller individual was shown, with an intense, serious face. “Seated next to Mr. Priar is Professor Sugermann, whose historical studies rank with those of Gibbon, Schiller, Toynbee. We are very fortunate to have Professor Sugermann with us.” The camera moved forth to show Professor Sugermann’s heavy, solemn features. “And next to Professor Sugermann sits Mr. Thomas L. Gates, lawyer, civic leader, consultant to the Committee for a number of years.”
Now the moderator appeared, and Mrs. Birmingham found herself facing Allen Purcell.
“And I,” Mr., Purcell said, “am Allen Purcell, Director of Telemedia.” He seated himself at the end of the table, by the water pitcher. “Shall we begin, gentlemen, with a few words about the etymology of active assimilation? Just how did Major Streiter develop the policy that was to prove so effective in his dealings with opposition groups?”
“Well, Mr. Purcell,” Professor Sugermann began, coughing importantly and fingering his chin, “the Major had many opportunities to see first-hand the ravages of war on principally agricultural and food-producing areas, such as the livestock regions of the West, the wheat fields of Kansas, the dairy industry of New England. These were all but wiped out, and naturally, as we all know, there was intensive deprivation if not actual starvation. This contributed to a decline of over-all productivity affecting industrial reconstruction. And during this period, of course, communications broke down; areas were cut off; anarchy was common.”
“In that connection,” Doctor Gleeby put in, “many of the problems of decline of moral standards inherent in the Age of Waste were vastly intensified by this collapse of what little
government there was.”
“Yes indeed,” Professor Sugermann agreed. “So in following this historic pattern, Major Streiter saw the need of finding new sources of food…and the soil, as we know, was excessively impregnated with toxic metals, poisons, ash. Most domestic herds had died off.” He gazed upward. “I believe by 1975 there were less than three hundred head of cattle in North America.”
“That sounds right,” Mr. Purcell said agreeably.
“So,” Professor Sugermann continued, “Moral Reclaimers as they operated in the field in the form of teams—” He gestured. “More or less autonomous units; we’re familiar with the technique… Encountered a virtually insoluble problem, that of feeding and caring for the numbers of persons coming across from hostile groups operating in the same area. In that connection I might add that Major Streiter seems to have foreseen long in advance the continual decline of animal husbandry that was to occur during the next decade. He took steps to anticipate the decline, and of course historians have made a big point of the aptness of those steps.”
Professor Sugermann sighed, contemplated his clasped hands, then went on.
“To fully grasp their situation, we must picture ourselves as living essentially without government, in a world of brute force. What concepts of morality existed were found only within the Reclaimers’ units; outside of that it was dog-eat-dog, animal against animal. A kind of jungle struggle for survival, with no holds barred.”
The table and five men dissolved; in their place appeared familiar scenes of the first postwar years. Ruins, squalor, barbarians snarling over scraps of meat. Dried pelts hanging from slatternly hovels. Flies. Filth.
“Large numbers of opposition groups,” Professor Sugermann continued, “were falling into our hands daily, thus complicating an already catastrophic problem of creating a stable diet in the devastated areas. Morec was on the ascendancy, but nobody was so idealistic as to believe the problem of creating a unified cultural milieu could be solved overnight. And the really sobering factor, evidently recognized early by the Major, was the so-called ‘impossible’ faction: those groups who could never be won over, and who were doing the most harm. Since Reclaimers were principally operating against those ‘impossibles,’ it was only natural that in the plan worked out by Major Streiter these ‘impossibles’ would be the most natural sources for assimilation. Further—”
The Man Who Japed Page 14
