Facial Justice (14 page)

Chapter Nineteen

NEXT morning, as Jael was walking to her work, a Beta woman hailed her. "Hello, Jael." Jael stared. Though her veil was not opaque it blurred her vision, a fact she did not greatly mind, for she had lost a good deal of her interest in the visual aspect of things. Still, it could be inconvenient. If only Betas were not so much alike! Jael said, "Sorry, I don't quite remember--" "No wonder, if you will wear that extraordinary veil. Why, it's Judith!" When the two old friends had shaken hands with due enthusiasm and Jael had made her apologies, she said: "But how did you recognize me? Hardly anyone does." "By the veil, of course. You're getting to be known by it." Jael didn't like this, and her spirit, which had expanded on meeting Judith, shrank again into its hard core. "As long as they don't connect the veil with me!" she said, lightly. "Oh, some of them do. To most you are just the Black Beta." They talked of other things, and then Judith, pointing, said: "Do you see what's written on that poster?" Jael switched her veil in the direction indicated by Judith's finger. The poster was stuck on to a wall, and level with a grown-up person's eye. Pretending she couldn't read it, Jael asked: "What does it say?" "Of course, if you will wear that veil!--It says, 'Bet on yourself.' " "Oh," said Jael, "what does that mean?" "Beta'd if I know." Judith wrinkled her face. " 'Bet on yourself.' It must be some kind of joke. How can you bet on yourself?" "I suppose you _could__," said Jael cautiously. "But how? You can bet on a number--we do that every week because it's V. C.--Voluntary Compulsory, to use the new phrase. But how can you bet on yourself? Yourself isn't a number." "We each have a number," Jael said. "Yes, yes, but that's only to distinguish us from the other Jaels and Judiths. You can bet on your own number, in the tombola, most of us have, though it's said to be unlucky. But how can you bet on yourself? Yourself doesn't exist." "Doesn't exist?" "Not apart from your number. Without a number Jael or Judith is just no one." "But surely you and I exist and should go on existing whether we had numbers or not?" By this time a little crowd had collected and were staring speechlessly at the poster. "Bet on yourself--that's a good one!" "I'm not sure if I have a self--I used to have, but I think it has withered away, like my tonsils. In any case I wouldn't bet on it." "Oh, wouldn't you? I would." "What, on yourself? You wouldn't have a hope." "How do you know I shouldn't back a winner?" "But what would you win? Life isn't a race." "Well, a place in the sun." "But there isn't any sun." "There is, only we don't see it because the war has changed the atmospheric conditions. But we might see it someday, and then--" "And then?" "Well, I'd be sitting in it." "And what about the rest of us?" "You could damned well bet on yourself." By now more people had collected round the placard. "What does it mean?" "What does it mean?" "This chap here says he wants to bet on himself." General laughter followed. "Does he think it will make him better-looking?" "Does he think it will restore his potency?" At least half the men in the New State were impotent. "Does he think he'll make himself an Inspector?" "Or does he think he'll step into the Dictator's shoes?" "Darling Dictator, darling Dictator, darling Dictator!" came the automatic chorus, and then more laughter. "You're laughing out of turn," the man said. "You'll be having the Inspectors after you. It'll be a fine, you know, or ten days' sackcloth. I'll see you get reported." At this there was a pause, and several people turned their heads and looked apprehensively up and down the quiet street. "Who said we weren't to laugh?" asked Jael, with all the truculence she could muster. "Who said we weren't to laugh? I like that! Don't you know your regulations?" "I hope so," Jael said stiffly. "Well, there's a new Edict. Until further notice, a quiet, reserved, downcast demeanor, suitable to delinquents of both sexes. Tears are recommended, but smiles are permissible, and laughter lasting not more than half a minute. On and off, you've been laughing for five minutes. I wish you could have heard yourselves, and seen yourselves." "It's a shame," said someone. "What's a shame?" asked Jael. For a moment nobody seemed able to answer, but sporadic, ragged cries of "It's a shame" continued to go up. "What's a shame?" demanded Jael when at last she could make herself heard above the din. "That we can't laugh when we want to!" "That we're made to cry when we don't want to, and there's nothing to cry about!" "It's a shame, it's a shame!" The angry wailing rose and fell, to Jael the most exciting sound she had heard since they danced round the tower at Ely. And she had started it and got it going! She looked about for Judith, but Judith had disappeared, and she must disappear, too, for in the distance was the golden gleam that heralded the approach of the Inspectors, and it wouldn't be healthy for her to be caught among the rioters. But something made her stand her ground, longer than she meant to, longer than was safe, and it wasn't till the crowd had begun to flee that she fled, too. Had they recognized her, the Inspectors, had they seen the veil? Too much excited to go straight back to work, she. made a tour of some of the posters she had put up last night. The tour rewarded her: around each poster an angry buzzing threatened violence. "Good morning, Jael," said Joab. "You're very late this morning. Did something happen to you, or did you just oversleep?" Jael was still shivering from excitement and afraid her brother would notice it; but she need not have been. "No, nothing happened," she said. "Nothing to speak of." That was literally true. Oh, that she had someone to confide in! She was tired of consuming her own smoke. Her brother was the last person she could talk to. "I was afraid you might have got caught up in that regrettable little incident," said Joab. "What incident?" asked Jael. "Tell me." "You mean to say you haven't heard? I can't think what you were doing." "To tell you the truth," said Jael, "I wasn't well this morning, and was in two minds about coming here." "Not well?" echoed Joab, amazed. "No, not well. Nobody is well all the time. I wasn't well, this morning." "But whose fault is that?" "Need it be anybody's?" "I suppose not," Joab said grudgingly, "unless you willfully reduced your efficiency. However, I'm glad you escaped the... the demonstration." "Tell me." Joab told her about the posters. "They were stuck up all over the town. 'Bet on yourself,' whatever that may mean. For some reason the Inspectors didn't spot it until some fellow started making a scene." "And then what happened?" "The Inspectors came and broke the meeting up and tore down the posters." "What will happen to the man?" asked Jael. Her brother lowered his voice. "He'll be R. E., I shouldn't wonder." Jael shivered. Returned Empty! That meant, it was popularly believed, being sent back to the Underworld, either dead or alive. The victim would be "emptied" in some way; but how, and of what? "But no one ever has been, have they?" she asked. "A murderer was. But there's never been a serious rising before against the regime. The thing that you took part in at Ely--well, it was just a farce, though you were lucky to get off so lightly. The Dictator is merciful, we know--" "Darling Dictator," said Jael irreverently. "But he'll have to take some notice of this. People will expect it of him. He'll... er... lose face if he doesn't. They'll expect a scapegoat. I wouldn't be in that chap's shoes." "How did you know about all this?" asked Jael. "Man with some figures about Facial Rearmament told me about half an hour ago. It'll be all over the town by now. How are you feeling--better? Good, then take down this. The heading is 'Facial Rearmament.' " Jael had evolved a technique for taking down dictation and at the same time listening to her own thoughts. At this moment her thoughts were very busy. Could it be possible that the incident that Joab referred to was not the one she had assisted at? He hadn't mentioned another. If it was the same one, how had she escaped? But had she escaped? "Facial Rearmament," she tapped out, "is now practiced by 17.5 per cent of the female population of the New State, out of which total 10.5 per cent, rather disappointingly, are Betas. As is, or should be, well known to patients and delinquents of the New State, a Beta skin is already automatically provided with every aid to the wearer's looks, which cosmetics, in the past, were believed to provide. It is now established that make-up on a Beta skin is definitely harmful, and may result in indelible staining like grease on a mackintosh; while face-lifting, in which.05 per cent of the female population have indulged, against the advice of their medical attendants, destroys the Beta facial tissue, and these unfortunates have sometimes been left literally without face. It cannot be too frequently emphasized that a Beta face must not be tampered with; it is there for good. The designs were chosen by a committee of connoisseurs in facial appearance, to be suitable for all occasions, including the most intimate, although, in this respect, care was taken not to make the design so physically alluring that the opposite sex would be impeded in the performance of its daily, nonamo-rous duties... to be psychologically, as well as aesthetically, satisfying... any deviation from uniformity brings its own penalty, not only in Bad E, but in the derision which some of these experimentalists have unhappily incurred.... The movement known as Facial Rearmament is sanctioned by the Dictator, who, as always supports the Voluntary Principle, but it is discouraged...." Had anyone seen her in the melee, wondered Jael, and denounced her to the Inspectors? Her veil made her conspicuous. Perhaps even now they were planning her arrest. "... A somewhat disturbing feature of the so-called Facial Rearmament campaign is that men delinquents are now taking part in it. Before the question of Facial Justices had become a major issue, there were, of course, men who, for one reason or another, chose to paint their faces. They amounted to only.1 per cent of the population, the Dictator is merciful, and they were ignored. The Dictator thought, and still thinks, that the male appearance is not a matter of sufficient interest to arouse Bad E, the virtue of a man lies in what he is, riot what he looks like. Psychologists have estimated that only 18.5 per cent of the female population are affected by a man's looks; whereas 79.5 per cent of the male population are affected by a woman's looks. To what end, then, these misguided creatures seek to improve on the work of Nature it would be kinder not to ask...." Rat-tat. Rat-tat--rat-tat. It was not Jael's typewriter, it was a loud knocking on the door that interrupted Joab's level, droning voice. "Come in!" he called irritably, and when the visitor, seemingly deafened by his own knocking, failed to respond, he shouted still more loudly, "Come in!" The door opened at last, to reveal a man's frightened face, and then the rest of him, clutching to his body a long envelope. He did not speak, but his face, and especially his mouth, worked alarmingly. "Well?" said Joab. The man gasped out, "They're everywhere!" "Pull yourself together," Joab said. "What are everywhere?" "The... the disturbances are. Wherever there's a poster. And they are shouting 'Bet on yourself!' and 'Down with the Dictator!'" Joab turned pale, and the lines deepened on his face. Jael could not change color or show what she felt, but her eyes glowed behind her veil and her heart beat exultantly. "But what are the Inspectors doing?" she asked. "They're taking them away as fast as they can." "The people or the posters?" "Both. They're sweeping them up, but fresh ones keep coming. Can't you hear the noise?" They listened, and a sound louder than the sighing of the March wind came through the windows. "They're sweeping them up, they're sweeping them up!" the man repeated, shivering uncontrollably. "I daren't go out again." "Well, stay here then," said Joab. "What's that you've brought for me?" The man stared about him, dazed, and then suddenly saw the envelope in his hand. "Why this--some figures, I think they are. They said you wanted them." "Yes, I expect I do. Sit down, and rest yourself." Trembling, the man obeyed, and Joab opened the envelope with hands that also trembled. "Oh," he said, trying to control his voice, "it's nothing much. Nothing very secret. But you'd better not let on that you've heard." The man nodded, as if he only half-understood, and the three of them involuntarily stiffened into listening attitudes. "I don't hear it now," said Joab, in an indifferent voice, as one would say, "The rain has stopped." "I think you might take this down, Jael." He cleared his throat, and took a turn up and down the room, glancing at the papers in his hand. "The heading is 'Facial Disarmament.' " "Facial Disarmament. This is a very small movement compared with the other, affecting only.89 per cent of the total population." Again he cleared his throat and his eyes wandered; he was finding it difficult to concentrate. "Perhaps we might put this in the form of a footnote, Jael. What do you think?" Making a great effort, Jael wrenched her mind round to the subject in hand. "But I suppose it involves a question of principle," she said. "Er... yes. Very well, then... Where had I got to?" "'Only.89 per cent of the total population.'" "Yes," and with a wavering voice he again started to dictate. "Trifling as the matter seems, a question of principle is at stake. The League for Facial Disarmament--" Jael held her pen poised. "I'm sorry. The aims of the League for Facial Disarmament appear to be obscure. Strangely enough, this self-styled League includes both men and women. There seems to be an idea that the Beta standard of facial appearance has been set too high, and those with Gamma countenances are suffering from a sense of inferiority and Bad Egg. They demand that the Beta standard should be lowered, and as a protest are taking every step, short of actual facial disfigurement, to make their appearances as unpleasing as possible, and, remarkable as it seems, they have found sympathizers in the Beta class--to uphold their claim. They say it is unfair--what was that?" They all listened to the silence, which seemed as thick and impenetrable as a wall. "There's no reason for uneasiness," said Joab testily. "Where was I, Jael? Oh, I remember now, you needn't remind me. 'They, the malcontent Betas, say it is unfair that the Gammas should be facially less well off than they are. They say they suffer from guilt in the presence of a Gamma, and do all they can to bring their faces down to Gamma level. They think that one face ought to be as good as another, and feel intense sympathy and
compassion for the facially underprivileged. They want the standard of looks lowered. They say it involves an overwhelming psychological effort to live up to a Beta face.' " "I don't find it so," said Jael, stung into championing her face. "I don't look at myself if I can help it, but--" "Your case is different," Joab said. "Your face was lowered, not lifted. Naturally you felt relaxed when, facially, you had been reduced to a lower level and no longer felt the emanations of Bad Egg from those with underprivileged faces. You could confront them on equal terms without the gnawing sense of superiority that was haunting you--" "But it _wasn't__ haunting me," Cried Jael, "until... until..." She stopped, wondering at what moment it had begun to haunt her, and urge her steps toward the threshold of the Ministry of Facial Justice. "Doesn't it ever make _you__ uncomfortable," she demanded, "to think that just because you happen to have been born with this gift for statistics, which others haven't got, you should be allowed to keep your Failed Alpha status, when others--" "Certainly not," said Joab. "It is quite different for men." "Just because the Dictator is a woman-hater--" "Jael!" "Well, everyone knows he is. Why should you be at liberty to feel superior, just because, in this one particular, you have more brains than other people? And do you find it a psychological strain to be better off mentally than they are?" "I've told you it's different for men." "How would you like having your brains lowered?" "Brains," said Joab, wearily, "are not a cause of Bad E, Jael, like money or beauty." "They might become so. It isn't fair that you should be cleverer than other people." "Don't be absurd. Where had I got up to?" "They say it is an overwhelming psychological strain having to live up to a Beta face." "Yes. Then take this down. "They also say that after a time Beta faces smell. This is untrue, of course. They demand the lowering of all women's faces to a Gamma standard, as a result of which, they claim, women would cease to be face conscious, and the nervous energy absorbed by face-saving would be released for more valuable ends.' " "What utter rot!" Jael interrupted. "Of course it is. But one must be realistic. It is easier to lower a standard than to raise one." "But surely the Dictator--" "The Dictator has to consider his human material. He has often said that he interprets, he doesn't initiate." "I see," said Jael, and the thought slid into her mind, any discontent, any unrest, is better than none. This might be the tiny rumble, felt more than heard, that precedes the earth-quake, just as-- Without warning a terrific hullabaloo started in the street outside their window. Cries, screams, grunts, a tumult of all the uninhibited sounds the human larynx can give voice to. The clamor displaced the air; it seemed to be going on inside the room, inside their own heads, as the three of them cowered against the wall that was farthest from the window. Their outstretched arms and hands, trying to support their sagging bodies, slid down the slippery surface, and even the men's faces lost all expression; the messenger collapsed in a heap. How long the din lasted they did not know, but gradually the volume of sound thinned and grew sparser, they could distinguish separate cries that were stifled into sobs. Little by little these, too, died away and silence fell, but still the trio did not move; it was as if every flicker of animation had been blown out, and not until the familiar strains of "Every Valley," twice repeated, recalled them to themselves did they stand up and with bent heads await the Dictator's message.