Chapter III: Part 3

DeVore stared unseeingly across the desk. He'd been at Outpost for a short time once, on an inspection trip, and he still remembered the place. At one time, it had been a well supplied, well organized post. At that time, observational duty had been regarded more highly than now, and the place had been desirable for any single officer, though the married men had objected to being separated from their families by the many miles of frozen waste. But that had changed.

Now, Outpost was the end of the line. The dilapidated surface quarters offered poor protection from the fierce cold. Supply ships were rarely scheduled to the place, and were often held up by storms when they were scheduled. Half rations--even quarter rations--were commonplace. He shook his head. Kirk was in real trouble, and there would be no point in joining him. That would help neither of them.

This, he thought, was a situation. Then, he realized something else. From Morely's point of view, it was a perfectly safe situation, with nothing to lose. The district leader could easily disclaim any responsibility for his Fiscal chief's actions in this matter. After all, he hadn't given any detailed instructions. He had made no direct suggestion of any illegal course. He'd merely consulted his Fiscal expert on a technical matter, and if DeVore had seen fit to use an illegal method of solving a problem, it was DeVore's responsibility alone.

To be sure, Morely had been a little emphatic in his order, but that was simply because he was well aware of his Fiscal chief's disinclination to make exhaustive technical research.

DeVore pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully at the regulation book. He might be able to use the same tactic Morely was following--if he were so inclined. He could issue verbal instructions to the sector leader concerned, and Bond might fail to see the trap. Then, he could report to the leader that the matter was taken care of, indorse the letter back to Central, with the agreement copy, and let Bond turn in funds under one of the "miscellaneous received" accounts. In fact, he realized, that was just about what the district leader expected him to do.

He smiled and shook his head. A few months ago, it was possible he could have done that, but even then, he wouldn't have. And now, with the mental communicators in use, it would be a flat impossibility. The trap would be as obvious to Bond as it had been to him. He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips against each other.

The mentacoms, he knew, were in common use by this time, in virtually every office of district, regional, and national administration, as well as by most citizens. And he'd served under Marko Keller once--known him fairly well, too. He shrugged.

It would be a little irregular for a district Fiscal chief to make direct contact with the Coördination Agency's comptroller, but there was nothing like getting the most expert and authoritative advice available. He relaxed, trying to recreate his memories of the man who was now National Comptroller.

* * * * *

Marko Keller strode purposefully into the filing section. He could easily get the data he needed by simply contacting one of the clerks, he knew, but he felt an urgent need for personal activity. That conversation with DeVore, way out in Region Nine, had upset him more than he liked to admit, even to himself.

It wouldn't be so bad if it were an isolated incident. Such things could be taken care of by administrative action, and a single instance would cause little disturbance. But there were too many, happening too often. He pulled a file drawer open, violently.

One of the clerks approached. "Can I help, sir?"

Keller turned to look at him. The man, he noted, was wearing one of the late model inductive headbands that had been sold in such quantities lately. Deluxe model, too. Must have cost him at least two months' pay. Like almost everyone else, he was vitally concerned in this latest affair. Keller frowned. He, himself, he realized, was acting childishly. He would simply be wasting time by trying to do this by himself.

"Yes," he growled. "Get me a brief on a few cases like this one." He made full contact with the man, rapidly summarizing his conversation with DeVore, and including DeVore's short flash of his own conversation with Ward Kirk.

"_And get a rundown from personnel. Dig up something on their angle, too. Several representative cases. Get a few people to help you--many as you need. I'm going to take this whole mess in to the Chief tomorrow morning._"

* * * * *

Paul Graham swept into the apartment, seized his wife about the waist and swung her into the air, to set her on top of one of his bookcases.

"They've done it, honey," he shouted.

Elaine kicked her heels in a rapid tattoo against the back of the case.

"Paul Graham, you get me down this instant," she ordered indignantly. "Who's done what?"

Graham stepped back and beat on his chest. "Meet the new production manager, Mentacom Division, Consolidated Electronics."

"Production manager? But, Paul, only first-class citizens can hold supervisory positions."

"Not any more. Didn't you have the communicator on for the news? It all came in."

Elaine shook her head and jumped to the floor. "I've a confession to make, Paul. Ever since they stopped the compulsory notices, I haven't had the thing on at all. It bothered me."

Her husband shook his head in mock dismay. "So now, I'm married to an ignoramus." He spread his hands. "She doesn't know what's going on in the great, big world." He shook a finger at her.

"It all busted this afternoon, darling. While you sat around in your splendid isolation, everything turned upside down."

She looked at him indignantly for an instant, then turned toward the kitchen.

"Paul, if you don't stop raving, I'm going to get my mentacom and pry it out of you," she threatened. "Now, you just settle down. Stop talking in circles and tell me what this is all about."

"Oh, all right. If you insist." Graham sank into a chair, looking like a small boy caught in a prank. "First, there are no more first-class citizens--no second-class citizens--not even third-class citizens. Everyone's a citizen again. Period." He threw his hands up.

"You mean--?"

"That's exactly what I mean. No more restrictions. No more compulsory community work. No more quarters inspections. And no more privileges. We've got rights again!

"If you want a dress, you buy it. You don't worry about whether it suits your station. If I can hold a job, I get it. And I did!" He got out of the chair and strode across the room, to sit on the arm of the divan. "And I can do this, if I want to. If I break this thing down, so help me, George, I'll go out and buy a new one." He bounced up and down a little.

"The administrators are going back to their original jobs. They're responsible for defense, in case of enemy attack, and that's all." He paused. "Of course, until sector and district elections can be held, they'll still take care of some of the community functions--some of them, that is. But the elections'll be set up in a few weeks, and we'll be able to choose our own officials for community government."

He bounced to his feet again, strode around the bookcases, and looked down at his desk. Then, he looked around again.

"Corporations are being set up to take over home construction." He held up a hand. "_Home_ construction, I said, not quarters. They're commercializing helicopter manufacture, all kinds of repair work, and a lot of other services. And they're going to restore patent rights. That means plenty to us, darling, believe me."

* * * * *

"But, but why? What happened?"

Graham turned on her. "Elaine," he cried, "haven't you noticed how many people are wearing mentacoms now, all the time? Haven't you noticed the consideration people have been giving each other for the past weeks? Remember what I told you once? If you fully understand a person, you simply can't kick him around. It's too much like taking slaps at yourself. With the exception of a few empathic cripples, who can't use the mentacom properly anyway, everyone, inside the administrative offices, as well as out, recognized that the bureaucracy was simply unworkable as it stood. So, they changed it. Effective immediately."

Elaine stamped her foot. "You know I haven't been out of this apartment," she cried. "And you know why. I simply couldn't stand the treatment I got. I'd have gotten into serious trouble in minutes. So, I've stayed in. I've done my shopping by communicator, and contented myself right here." She paused.

"But how is the new administration going to be supported? What are people going to do? How are they taking it? It's all so sudden, I should think--"

Graham held up a hand.

"Hey," he protested. "One at a time, please! First--remember taxes? Remember how we used to growl about them? They're back. And I love 'em. Second--nobody is going to do anything. Anything drastic or unusual, that is. And finally? Everyone I've seen is taking it in their stride. Seems as though they've been sort of expecting it, ever since they started mind-to-mind communication.

"You'd be surprised how good most people are at it, now that they're used to it. You start into a line of helicopters. All at once, you realize that the guy coming is really in a hurry. He's got to get somewhere, fast. So, you let him go by. The next fellow's not going to be in any tearing rush. He'll let you in, and cheer you on your way.

"You feel like being left alone? Nobody'll even notice you. But if you feel like talking, half a dozen total strangers'll find something in common with you. And they'll discuss it. Honey, you'll be surprised how much you've missed. Get your mentacom. Let's take a little shopping trip."

* * * * *

"And here's one of our more difficult cases. But he's coming along nicely." Dr. Moran pointed through the one-way window.

"Name's Howard Morely. He used to be a district leader, under the bureaucracy. But along in the last few weeks, just before the change, he got into some sort of scrape. They questioned him, and declared him unfit for service. Put him out on a pension." He pulled at an ear.

"Matter of fact, I understand his case had quite a deal to do with the change--sort of triggered it. They tell me it sort of pointed up the fallacies of the bureaucracy." He shrugged.

"But that's unimportant now, I guess. He almost receded into complete paranoia. Had a virtually complete case of empathic paralysis when he came to us. Simply no conception of any other person's point of view, and a hatred of people that was fantastic. But he's nearly normal now."

The visiting psychiatrist nodded. "I've seen the type, of course. We have a number of them, too. You say this new technique was successfully used in his case?"

"Yes. We had doubts of it, too. Seemed too simple. Sure, we're all familiar with the mentacoms by now. Wouldn't be without my own. But the idea of a field generator so powerful as to force clear impressions into a crippled mind like his, without completely destroying that mind, seemed a little fantastic." He shrugged.

"In this case, though, it was a last resort, so we tried it. He resisted the field for days. Simply sat in his cell and stared at the walls. We were almost ready to give up when one of the operators finally got through to him. Know what his first visualization was?"

The visitor shook his head and laughed. "I could try a guess, I suppose," he said, "but my chances would be something less than one in a thousand million."

Moran grinned. "You're so right. There was a whole bunch of kids standing around. Looked like dozens of 'em. And they were all chanting at the top of their voices. You know that old jingle? 'Howie's got a gir-rul?' Chanted it over and over." The grin widened. "Operator said his face stung for ten minutes. That girl must have packed one sweet wallop!"

THE END

Transcriber's Note:

This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ June 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.