The Status Civilization (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Early the next morning. Barrent began his exploration. His technique was simple. He rang doorbells and asked questions. He warned all his subjects that his real questions might be interspersed with tricks or nonsense questions, whose purpose was to test the general awareness level. In that way, Barrent found he could ask anything at all about Earth, could explore controversial or even non-existent areas, and do so without revealing his own ignorance.

There was still the danger that some official would ask for his credentials, or that the police would mysteriously spring up when least expected. But he had to take those risks. Starting at the beginning of Orange Esplanade, Barrent worked his way northward, calling at each house as he went. His results were uneven, as a selective sampling of his work shows:

(Citizen A. L. Gotthreid, age 55, occupation home-tender. A strong, erect woman, imperious but polite, with a no-nonsense air about her.)

“You want to ask me about class and status? Is that it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You Opinioners are
always
asking about class and status. One would think you’d know all about it by now. But very well. Today, since everyone is equal, there is only one class. The
middle
class. The only question then is—to what portion of the middle class does one belong? High, low, or middle?”

“And how is that determined?”

“Why, by all sorts of things. The way a person speaks, eats, dresses, the way he acts in public. His manners. His clothing. You can always tell your upper middle class man by his clothes. It’s quite unmistakable.”

“I see. And the lower middle classes?”

“Well, for one thing they lack creative energy. They wear ready-made clothing, for example, without taking the trouble to improve upon it. The same goes for their homes. Mere uninspired adornment won’t do, let me add. That’s simply the mark of the
nouveau
upper middle class. One doesn’t receive such persons in the home.”

“Thank you, Citizen Gotthreid. And where would you classify yourself statuswise?”

(With the very faintest hesitation). “Oh, I’ve never thought much about it—upper middle, I suppose.”

(Citizen Dreister, age 43, occupation shoe vendor. A slender, mild man, young-looking for his years.)

“Yes, sir. Myra and I have three children of school age. All boys.”

“Could you give me some idea what their education consists of?”

“They learn how to read and write, and how to become good citizens. They’re already starting to learn their trades. The oldest is going into the family business—shoes. The other two are taking apprenticeship courses in groceries and retail marketing. That’s my wife’s family’s business. They also learn how to retain status, and how to utilize standard techniques for moving upward. That’s about what goes on in the open classes.”

“Are there other school classes which are not open?”

“Well, naturally there are the closed classes. Every child attends them.”

“And what do they learn in the closed classes?”

“I don’t know. They’re closed, as I said.”

“Don’t the children ever speak about those classes?”

“No. They talk about everything under the sun, but not about that.”

“Haven’t you any idea what goes on in the closed classes?”

“Sorry, I don’t. At a guess—and it’s only a guess, mind you—I’d say it’s probably something religious. But you’d have to ask a teacher for that.”

“Thank you, sir. And how do you classify yourself statuswise?”

“Middle middle class. Not much doubt about that.”

(Citizen Maryjane Morgan, age 51, occupation school-teacher. A tall, bony woman.)

“Yes, sir, I think that just about sums up our curriculum at the Little Beige Schoolhouse.”

“Except for the closed classes.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“The closed classes. You haven’t discussed those.”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Why not, Citizen Morgan?”

“Is this a trick question? Everyone knows that teachers aren’t allowed in the closed classes.”

“Who
is
allowed in?”

“The children, of course.”

“But who teaches them?”

“The government is in charge of that.”

“Of course. But who, specifically, does the teaching in the closed classes?”

“I have no idea, sir. It’s none of my business. The closed classes are an ancient and respected institution. What goes on in them is quite possibly of a religious nature. But that’s only a guess. Whatever it is, it’s none of my business. Nor is it yours, young man, Opinioner or not.”

“Thank you, Citizen Morgan.”

(Citizen Edgar Nief, age 107, occupation retired officer. A tall, stooped man with cane, icy blue eyes undimmed by age.)

“A little louder, please. What was that question again?”

“About the armed forces. Specifically I asked—”

“I remember now. Yes, young man, I was a colonel in the Twenty-first North American Space-borne Commando, which was a regular unit of the Earth Defense Corps.”

“And did you retire from the service?”

“No, the service retired from me.”

“I beg pardon, sir?”

“You heard me correctly, young man. It happened just sixty-three years ago. The Earth Armed Forces were demobilized, except for the police whom I cannot count. But all regular units were demobilized.”

“Why was that done, sir?”

“There wasn’t anyone to fight. Wasn’t even anyone to guard against, or so I was told. Damned foolish business, I say.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because an old soldier knows that you can never tell when an enemy might spring up. It could happen now. And then where would we be?”

“Couldn’t the armies be formed again?”

“Certainly. But the present generation has no concept of serving under arms. There are no leaders left, outside of a few useless old fools like me. It would take years for an effective force, effectively led, to be formed.”

“And in the meantime, Earth is completely open to invasion from the outside?”

“Yes, except for the police units. And I seriously doubt their reliability under fire.”

“Could you tell me about the police?”

“There is nothing I know about them. I have never bothered my head about non-military matters.”

“But it is conceivable that the police have now taken over the functions of the army, isn’t it? That the police constitute a sizable and disciplined paramilitary force?”

“It is possible, sir. Anything is possible.”

(Citizen Moertin Honners, age 31, occupation verbalizer. A slim, languid, man with an earnest, boyish face and smooth, corn-blond hair.)

“You are a verbalizer, Citizen Honners?”

“I am, sir. Though perhaps ‘author’ would be a better word, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Citizen Honners, are you presently engaged in writing for any of the periodicals I see on the dissemination stands?”

“Certainly not! These are written by incompetent hacks for the dubious delectation of the lower middle class. The stories, in case you didn’t know, are taken line by line from the works of various popular writers of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The people who do the work merely substitute adjectives and adverbs. Occasionally, I’m told, a more daring hack will substitute a verb, or even a noun. But that is rare. The editors of such periodicals frown upon sweeping innovations.”

“And you are not engaged in such work?”

“Absolutely not! My work is noncommercial. I am a Creative Conrad Specialist.”

“Would you mind telling me what that means, Citizen Honners?”

“I’d be happy to. My own particular field of endeavor lies in re-creating the works of Joseph Conrad, an author who lived in the pre-atomic era.”

“How do you go about re-creating those works, sir?”

“Well, at present I am engaged in my fifth recreation of
Lord Jim.
To do it, I steep myself as thoroughly as possible in the original work. Then I set about rewriting it as Conrad would have written it if he had lived today. It is a labor which calls for extreme diligence, and for the utmost in artistic integrity. A single slip could mar the re-creation. As you can see, it calls for a preliminary mastery of Conrad’s vocabulary, themes, plots, characters, mood, approach, and so on. All this goes in, and yet the book cannot be a slavish
repeat.
It must have something new to say, just as Conrad would have said it.”

“And have you succeeded?”

“The critics have been generous, and my publisher gives me every encouragement.”

“When you have finished your fifth re-creation of
Lord Jim
, what do you plan to do?”

“First I shall take a long rest. Then I shall recreate one of Conrad’s minor works.
The Planter of Malata
, perhaps.”

“I see. Is re-creation the rule in all the arts?”

“It is the goal of the true aspiring artist, no matter what medium he has chosen to work in. Art is a cruel mistress, I fear.”

(Citizen Willis Ouerka, age 8, occupation student. A cheerful, black-haired, sun-tanned boy.)

“I’m sorry, Mr. Opinioner, my parents aren’t home right now.”

“That’s perfectly all right, Willis. Do you mind if I ask you a question or two?”

“I don’t mind. What’s that you got under your jacket, Mister? It bulges.”

“I’ll ask the questions, Willis, if you don’t mind. … Now, do you like school?”

“It’s all right.”

“What courses do you take?”

“Well, there’s reading and writing and status appreciation, and courses in art, music, architecture, literature, ballet, and theater. The usual stuff.”

“I see. That’s in the open classes?”

“Sure.”

“Do you also attend a closed class?”

“Sure I do. Every day.”

“Do you mind talking about it?”

“I don’t mind. Is that bulge a gun? I know what guns are. Some of the big boys were passing around pictures at lunchtime a couple days ago and I peeked. Is it a gun?”

“No. My suit doesn’t fit very well, that’s all. Now then. Would you mind telling me what you do in the closed class?”

“I don’t mind.”

“What happens, then?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Come now, Willis.”

“Really, Mr. Opinioner. We all go into this classroom, and we come out two hours later for recess. But that’s all. I can’t remember anything else. I’ve talked with the other kids. They can’t remember either.”

“Strange …”

“No, sir. If we were supposed to remember, it wouldn’t be
closed
.”

“Perhaps so. Do you remember what the room looks like, or who your teacher is for the closed class?”

“No, sir. I really don’t remember anything at all about it.”

“Thank you. Willis.”

(Citizen Cuchulain Dent, age 37, occupation inventor. A prematurely bald man with ironic, heavy-lidded eyes.)

“Yep, that’s right. I’m an inventor specializing in games. I brought out
Triangulate—Or Else!
last year. It’s been pretty popular. Have you seen it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Sort of a cute game. It’s a simulated lost-in-space thing. The players are given incomplete data for their miniature computers, additional information as they win it. Space hazards for penalties. Lots of flashing lights and stuff like that. Very big seller.”

“Do you invent anything else, Citizen Dent?”

“When I was a kid, I worked up an improved seeder harvester. Designed to be approximately three times as efficient as the present models. And would you believe it, I really thought I had a chance of selling it.”

“Did you sell it?”

“Of course not. At that time I didn’t realize that the patent office was closed permanently except for the games section.”

“Were you angry about that?”

“A little angry at the time. But I soon realized that the models we have are plenty good enough. There’s no need for more efficient or more ingenious inventions. Folks today are satisfied with what they’ve got. Besides, new inventions would be of no service to mankind. Earth’s birth and death rate are stable, and there’s enough for everyone. To produce a new invention, you’d have to retool an entire factory. That would be almost impossible, since all the factories today are automatic and self-repairing. That’s why there’s a moratorium on invention, except in the novelty game field.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“What’s there to feel? That’s how things are.”

“Would you like to have things different?”