The Hidden World: A Golden Age SF Classic Page 5

  "Yes, it is so, Father,” agreed Loa, who by this time had ceased laughing. “Why not recommend to Dictator Thuno Flatum that we split up into several countries?"

  "Excellent!” concurred Tan Tal. “Then we could go to war to defend the rights of small nations!"

  "But I don't quite understand,” I put in. “You're talking as if war is a good thing. Up in our world, we call it a curse!"

  "A curse?” echoed all the members of Tan Torm's family, amid an uproar of laughter. “A curse? Mighty abysses! What sort of a world do you have!"

  "Don't let anyone here catch you saying that!” warned the Professor, scowling. “If one of the Official Overhears heard you, you'd be court-martialed!

  "What are the Overhears?"

  No one attempted to answer, so I assumed that the Overhears were members of a secret police whose duty it was to overhear and report unpatriotic remarks of their fellow citizens. What I had already observed should have led me to assume, too, that these people considered warfare a great good, but the utter strangeness of things around me often kept me from making logical connections between familiar elements. My guess about the Overhears was right.

  "There's no use talking,” mused Tan Tal, shaking her head sadly, “the savagery of the colored races is unquenchable. To think they're actually opposed to warfare!"

  "It's so unenlightened of them!” condemned Loa.

  "So disgusting!” jeered Moa.

  "So barbarous!” groaned Noa. “Really, they must still be in the Stone Age!

  "You see, my dear young man,” explained the Professor, turning to me not unkindly, “we live in an age of reason. Reason and science—these are the two features of our life, and both of these tell us that man is a fighting animal. Biology assures us that he was created with the instinct of aggression, which is necessary for the sake of self-preservation. Psychology declares that all the instincts planted in him by nature must be satisfied. Accordingly, men satisfy their instinct of self-preservation by destroying one another. That fact was demonstrated long ago by the world's leading military psychologist, the great philosopher Yil Zom."

  Tan Tal once more lifted her voice. “Besides, there is another reason. If we didn't fight, think of the loss to industry! Think of all the millions invested in Mulflar Works and land-battleship factories! Why, if we didn't have any war, all this investment would be wasted."

  "Yes, and my stocks in Mulflar Products, Amalgamated, couldn't possibly maintain their present high of 311!” said the Professor.

  Taking advantage of a gap in the conversation, I asked, “What's the present war all about, Professor Tan Torm? What is the issue, the principle behind it?"

  "Issue? Principle behind it?” snorted Tan Torm. “What makes you think there is any issue, any principle behind it? We're fighting for the national honor, and, certainly, there is no principle behind that!"

  The Professor paused, energetically stroking his two-pointed beard and glaring at me as though I had been guilty of some offense against decency. “There has to be an official reason for the war, of course,” he resumed, more mildly. “In this case, we were driven to our wit's ends, and couldn't think of anything better than the old Nullnull dispute."

  "What's the Nullnull dispute?"

  The five chalk-faces all stared at me a little blankly, as if incredulous. However, the professor condescendingly explained: “On the borderline between Wu and Zu is the province of Nullnull. This is composed of a series of desert caverns, a dozen miles long and about half as wide. They say that once it was valuable land, containing lakes, streams, and rich ore deposits. However, it has been so shot to pieces that no one lives there now, and it is worthless except as a place to fly the national flag. It is therefore highly coveted by both Wu and Zu.

  "In the course of the last thousand years, it has changed hands a hundred and nineteen times, and every time it has been recaptured there has been an excuse for another war—for, of course, the citizens of the defeated land could not be content to have Nullnull wrenched away from them. Thus the military ardor of both countries has been kept at boiling point, and we have had no trouble in advancing our Military Birth Extension Program."

  "Military Birth Extension Program?” I murmured expectantly.

  "Exactly what the name implies! In order to keep a war going, what do we need most of all, besides money and ammunition? Naturally, man power! But present-day warfare is so efficient that man power does not last long. It is estimated that the military turnover is seventy-five per cent a year.

  "Just what is military turnover?"

  "The percentage of men turned over to the army of the immortals."

  "You mean, the percentage killed?"

  Tan Torm and the four ladies all glared at me as though I had committed an impiety. The professor stroked his beard in indignation; the mouths of Loa, Moa, and Noa opened wide with horror.

  "Killed? Killed, young man?” thundered Tan Torm. “Never use that word in connection with war! It is not permitted! It is illegal, unpatriotic! No one is ever killed in war! Millions are sent to the Blessed Caverns, or converted into deathless champions, or become the Unknown Hero! But no one is ever killed. That is forbidden by law."

  "Young man,” remonstrated Tan Tal, “remarks like yours are enough to ruin morale."

  "If we didn't know you spoke in ignorance, sir, we would have you examined by the Intelligence Department, which would most likely have you executed for speaking without a license!” declared the Professor.

  After a moment, however, he seemed softened by my contrite expression; and, regaining his good humor, continued:

  "I was going to explain about our Military Birth Extension Program. The idea is that all families should have as many children as possible—sons, so that they may go down to fight for their country, and daughters, so that they may bear more sons to go down to fight for their country. All couples married for ten years or over are required to pay a tax for every child which they have less than seven. But for every child above the seventh, they receive a bonus. The system works so well that we are able to keep our population stationary."

  "Stationary? Why, at that rate, it ought to double every generation"

  "It would—except for the military turnover. As it happens, our boys are all enlisted in the army's reserve corps at the age of six, and from that time forth are trained for the next war. So rigorous is the discipline that fifty per cent never reach sixteen. This insures the survival of the fittest.

  "At sixteen, the surviving youths are enrolled in the active army, and are sent to the front to face the boys of Zu. They are then offered the hope of retiring as veterans at eighteen, if they should reach that age. But fifteen out of sixteen go over to the Blessed Caverns."

  I was about to comment, but refrained, for fear of breaking some penal law.

  "Besides being profitable, it is a great honor to have many children,” continued the professor, with zest. “Mothers are given an honorary brass crescent for every son born to them; and fathers receive an honorary crescent of silver. Immediately upon the death"—here Tan Torm paused and coughed in great embarrassment—"pardon me, immediately upon the turnover of a son, the mother and father each receive another honorary crescent. It is this that makes the Birth Extension Program such a success."

  "Well, Professor, you yourself don't seem to have starred in that line,” I remarked, with a side glance at Loa, Moa, and Noa, who surprised me by averting their eyes and sighing. “With only three daughters to your credit—"

  "Three daughters?” bellowed Tan Torm, his long black-gloved hand shaking. “And what, pray, of my five sons?"

  "Yes, what of our five sons?” echoed Tan Tal, wiping a tear from the corner of one eye.

  "Well, what of them?"

  "They have all gone to the Blessed Caverns!” sighed the Professor.

  "I have five extra crescents for the dear boys!” confided Tan Tal, wiping a second tear from her eye. “Poor darlings! The oldest was just seventeen when he—whe
n he was turned over. I shall always be proud of their gallantry."

  "I, too!” said Tan Torm. “It shall be a lifelong source of gratification to look at my five extra crescents, which shall redound to my honor forever.

  "Your honor?” I broke out. “Who was it, then, that died?"

  "Something in me died forever when they ... when they were turned over,” said the Professor.

  Tan Tal meanwhile, with all the suppressed fury of outraged motherhood, was glaring at me as if to devour me whole. “Barbarian! What makes you think they died? They shall live forever in our memory! They shall endure in the annals of their country! They shall live here—here, in the shrine of my breast!"

  So speaking, she smote the designated part of her anatomy a blow severe enough to do her physical injury.

  "They shall live forever—here in the shrine of my breast!” thundered the professor, following suit.

  I decided to change the topic. “Did you say all the boys of Wu are enlisted in the army? Are there no exceptions?"

  "Naturally, there are! All sons of Second and Third Class citizens must go to war, but sons of First Class citizens are exempted."

  "Who are the First Class citizens?"

  "Why, haven't I told you of our three classes? The division is an ancient one, and is the basis of our social life. The Third Class, which is the most numerous, is sometimes also called the Hungry Class. Its members are notable for doing all the country's hard work, and are so busy they often do not get enough to eat. The people of this caste are prohibited from thinking, lest thought lead to revolt. Above them is the Second or Sedentary Class, to which I have the honor of belonging. Its members usually get enough to eat, hence a mild amount of thought is permissible, so long as it doesn't give birth to unlicensed speech. But over us all is the First or Mirror Class, which makes up a little under forty-six one hundredths of one per cent of the population, and owns ninety-eight per cent of the country."

  "Why do you call them the Mirror Class?"

  "Because, like Thuno Flatum, they never tire of looking at themselves in mirrors. This, of course, is only proper in the class that rules us."

  "But I thought Thuno Flatum ruled you."

  "Thuno Flatum is the head of the Mirror Class. He has been chosen by the Mirror Class as their leader,” continued Tan Torm, “since he is considered the strongest of them all. In other words, his senses, legs, and lungs are the most atrophied."

  This was a bit confusing, for all the totalitarian logic I had just heard.

  "You see,” he explained, “for ages the Mirror Class has prided itself upon its pure blood. None of its members, under pain of death, has ever been permitted to intermarry with a Second or Third Class citizen. The result of this long interbreeding has been a distinctive type, unlike us low-grade people. Thanks to their lives of luxury, and their constant use of wheeled vehicles, the Mirrors—or Masters, as they are sometimes called—have all but forgotten how to use their legs, which have become thin and shriveled. In the same way, since they have never filled their lungs by exercise or labor, their breathing apparatus has almost withered away. Since they have rarely used their eyes or ears, these organs, too, have become worthless without artificial aid.

  "All these qualities are signs of superiority—or of ‘green blood,’ as aristocracy is called among us. That Master whose lungs are the frailest, whose legs are the feeblest, and whose vision is the dimmest is chosen to lead the country, since the purity of his lineage is the most unquestioned."

  Despite my attempt to understand, I committed a gross diplomatic blunder. “I don't see why you stand for it,” I blurted out. “I don't see why you let these frail little masters rule you, own most of the property, and be excused from fighting."

  It was a minute before any of them was able to find speech. “Great caverns!” gasped Loa at length, her features more wrinkled than ever as she made a grimace of disgust. “I didn't know we had a revolutionary right here in our own home!"

  "Yes, a poisonous revolutionary” cried Moa. “Who would have believed it!"

  "The next thing,” exclaimed Noa, “he'll be demanding the single standard in justice!"

  "Or an end to two-faced politics!” contributed Tan Tal, glowering at me.

  "This is serious indeed!” conceded the professor. “Of course, allowances must be made for barbarians. You can't expect to civilize them in a minute. We'll take him down tomorrow to the Commissioner of Public Thought, and make him swallow the Oath of Fidelity. After that, if he makes any more disloyal statements, he will have to take the responsibility."

  "Good! Very good!” cried the ladies. “We should have done that long ago!"

  "And what's the Oath of Fidelity?"

  "You'll find out, young man, after you've swallowed it!” snapped the professor. “And now you've had enough of my time for one day! I must get back to my researches on the history of the comma in ancient literature."

  CHAPTER VII

  THE OATH OF FIDELITY

  On the following day, Professor Tan Torm took me to visit the Commissioner of Public Thought. Or, rather, on the following “wake"; for the chalk-faces, not having the guidance of the sun, divide time into periods of about twelve hours each, which are known alternately as “sleeps” and “wakes."

  As this was the first time I had left the professor's house in months, I strode along at his side with great glee as he led me through the tortuous thoroughfares. Several times, I narrowly missed being felled by one of the small coaster-like vehicles or “scoots"; but despite such near mishaps, I kept up my good spirits until we had reached our destination's long, gloomy chamber where fifty chalk-faces were already waiting in line.

  "The Commissioner's headquarters are always crowded,” stated the professor, as we took our places at the foot of the procession. “You see, all Second and Third Class citizens are required to swallow the Oath of Fidelity twice a year."

  The first in line, having finished his business passed out a gleaming bit of brass, which was promptly rung up on a cash register by a little chalk-face seated at a table.

  For over an hour we remained standing in line; and, to amuse himself during the interval, Tan Torm read to me in loud tones the various signs and placards that hung about the room—signs and placards which I was not yet able to decipher.

  "Lower-class citizens should be seen and not heard. And the less seen the better.” Then he commented, “That is a maxim dating back thousands of years to our greatest lawgiver, Tith Wyt.

  "A little thought is a dangerous thing,” continued Tan Torm, turning back to the signs, “and much thought is impossible. Therefore the ideal citizen will live in a state of sublime thoughtlessness.

  "That is a rule we always do our best to follow,” he explained with a boastful smile. “It is the first of the Brass Rules of Conduct, brass being our most sacred metal—more holy even than silver.

  "But I suppose it's useless to try to inculcate such high principles into the barbarian mind,” he meditated. “However, here's the second Brass Rule.” And he read: “Thoughtlessness is the best policy. It insures one the respect of one's superiors, the confidence of one's equals, and a successful career in business or politics."

  Seeing that I had no comment to make, my guide proceeded to the Third Brass Rule: “Thoughtlessness is next to godliness. A thoughtless mind and soul are the purest creation of the divine. He who thinks not will be content. He who thinks not will spend no time on vain revolt. He who thinks not will never suffer from headaches."

  There were eleven other Brass Rules, all of which the Professor read with gusto; but my attention had wandered, and I scarcely heard what he said. My mind was far away; I was thinking of Clay...

  I was awakened from my reveries by hearing a voice snap, “Next!” I was now first in line.

  A scowling little individual sat before me at a stone table, with a cash register as tall as a grandmother's clock towering above him. “Well? What is it?"

  "This is my protégé,” exp
lained the Professor, coming forward. “Being a barbarian, he knows little of our laws, and I therefore thought it best to give him the Oath of Fidelity before it was too late."

  "That's all very well, but who's going to pay?"

  "I'll attend to that,” agreed Tan Torm. “As a member of the teaching profession, I'm allowed a discount."

  "Very well! All accounts strictly cash!” And then, while the Professor muttered, “Fidelity rates come high this year,” the official reached for a long roll of paper printed with minute characters. He read aloud from across the room by means of binoculars, hastily, and in mumbling tones; I could distinguish not a word.

  Having finished, he thrust the paper forward, pushed a pen into my hand, and directed, “Sign here."

  Although not well versed in the native handwriting, I was able to make a mark that passed for my signature.

  With a sigh of relief, I had turned away, when I heard the official's voice ringing out behind me: “Wait a minute! You've forgotten to swallow the Oath!"

  I wheeled about, and saw that the paper I had just signed was being rolled into a little pellet in the official's hands.

  "Here! Swallow this!” he ordered, tossing it to me after it had been reduced to the size and shape of a marble.

  "Swallow it?"

  Several persons behind me in line were tittering.

  "Do as the man says!” shrilled the Professor's voice in my ear. “What use is the Oath of Fidelity if you don't swallow it—and swallow it whole?"

  I reached for the pellet, and regarded it suspiciously. It was as hard and unappetizing as a chip of granite.

  "What are you waiting for?” demanded the official. “Don't you want to swallow it? Will we have to call a recruiting sergeant and force it down your throat?"