“What the devil,” he thought, as he boarded a downtown car, “is the world coming to? Or rather, what has the world come to? I don’t believe I’m going to have such a good time after all”; and he sighed for the day when a close decision meant tears and threats unsurpassed even in Hell.
He began to long for someone to talk to — loneliness assailed him. A baby in the arms of a woman opposite him began to cry, and on a signal from the conductor the woman arose and left the car at the next corner. The man seated next to him — an awkward-looking man with a beard — was engaged in conversation with his neighbor on the other side. “The English,” he was saying, “are a wonderful people.”
“The Americans,” replied the other, “are a very wonderful people.”
“The English,” said the bearded man, “are great artists.”
“The Americans are a race of geniuses.”
“The British Empire is indissoluble.”
“America is the Land of Freedom.”
“England is the greatest country in the world.”
“Rule 142,” said the American, calmly. “No comparisons allowed in an argument.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the Englishman.
But Pamfret was already on his feet. He had always hated the English. “Argument!” he shouted. “Argument! Do you call that an argument? Tell him he lies!”
“Rules 207, 216, and 349,” said the Englishman and American in unison. “No contradictions, no personalities, and no loud talking.”
The conductor touched Pamfret on the arm and signalled him to leave the car. Pamfret’s first impulse was to throw him through a window; this continual restraint was becoming irksome. But he thought better of it, and besides, they had reached Sixty-sixth Street. He alighted at the next corner, and started south on Central Park West.
At Sixty-fifth Street was a restaurant, and he stopped for dinner. The room was crowded; but finally Pamfret found a table over against the wall, sat down and called a waiter, who seemed a little worried as he caught sight of him.
“Table d’hote?” asked Pamfret.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Make the selection yourself,” and the waiter hurried away, still with the worried look on his face.
A man and woman entered the restaurant and walked straight to the table where Pamfret was sitting. They seemed surprised on seeing him seated there, looked around in a disconcerted manner, and finally sat down on a small divan placed against the wall. Pamfret thought he understood. He got up from his chair and bowed to the man.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but is this your table?”
The man nodded. “Yes — that is, we — we had it reserved,” he answered.
“Well, then,” said Pamfret, “I wouldn’t think of appropriating it. The waiter should have told me. Of course you will take it?”
“But surely you know that would be against the law,” exclaimed the other, horrified. “We couldn’t.”
“But that is exactly what I do not know,” said Pamfret. “At least,” he added, “I trust you will allow me to share it with you?”
The man looked at the woman inquiringly. She nodded. Pamfret found another chair, and all three sat down at the table together. The waiter appeared with a plate of soup, and seeming relieved to find the couple seated, took their order.
“I am surprised—” began the man.
“Of course you are,” interrupted Pamfret. “But I really don’t know the first thing about these beastly — these laws. The truth is — I have lived nearly all my life in China, where everything is different.”
“But I thought the peace laws were universal.”
“They are, they are,” Pamfret replied hastily. “But I was alone most of the time — er — scientific explorations, you know. Besides they do this sort of thing better in China. There is no—”
“Rule 142. No comparisons,” interrupted the woman.
There was silence for a while. Finally Pamfret tried again.
“Those broiled mushrooms were delicious,” he declared. “Don’t you think so?”
“I beg your pardon, but I’m afraid I can’t answer you,” replied the man. “Rule 207, you know. No contradictions.”
Pamfret was becoming desperate. He had given his head so many bumps against this immovable wall of Peace that he was unable even to think. Silence, he decided, was his only refuge.
As the dessert came on he heaved a sigh of relief, and foolishly ventured a question.
“You know,” he said, “I have been out of the world for a number of years, and I hope you won’t mind if I ask you a question. How long has this peace thing been in power?”
“Really,” answered the man, “you amaze me. Discussion of history is strictly forbidden.”
Pamfret could stand it no longer. He threw a bill on the table; took up his hat and stick and rushed wildly out of the restaurant.
A car was passing the door. Pamfret ran to the next corner ahead of it and waved his cane at the motorman. The car went by without stopping, and as it passed the conductor tossed a card out of the window. It fell on the pavement at Pamfret’s feet. He picked it up and read:
Rule 96. The motorman or engineer of a public vehicle shall ignore signals to stop for passengers, if such signals are boisterous or agitated, or made in any but a thoroughly peaceful manner.
Pamfret tore the card in a dozen pieces. “Well, of all the—” he began, then he was silent. He was afraid to talk even to himself where there was a chance of being overheard. He wanted to be alone, to have time to consider this strange, this impossible world to which he had been so eager to return. He started to walk downtown, intending to get a room in the first hotel he saw.
At Sixty-first Street he noticed a magnificent white marble building set back some fifty feet from the street, facing Central Park. It was flanked by four minarets, each one bearing at the top a marble group representing a winged angel destroying a warrior’s sword. Over the entrance, in heavy raised letters, was the inscription HALL OF PEACE.
“So this is where they do it,” thought Pamfret, as he gazed at the inscription. “I’d like to blow the d — d thing up.” Then he noticed that the main doors were open, and passing over the outer flagstones with an odd feeling of fear, he went inside.
The interior was very similar to that of a cathedral, with the exception that there were no stained glass windows. Immense columns of marble rose on every side, while the vaulted roof seemed to reach to the skies. At the farther end was an altar, on which was set the figure of the winged angel destroying the warrior’s sword. The group was of ebony. Below, on the pedestal, were inscribed the words of the Poet:
Around the altar rail below the figures men and women were kneeling. Pamfret, as he gazed, felt a feeling of mingled disgust and awe sweep over him. “Of course,” he said to himself, “it is really very funny. But somehow it impresses one.” And he turned to leave.
A half-hour later found him seated in his room at the Hotel Pax, reading a book. He had found it lying on the table when he entered the room. It was covered in black leather and lettered in gold with the title, “Book of Peace.” “By all the Gods!” exclaimed Pamfret. “Here’s their bible!”
It was little more than a book of rules, with photographs and biographies of the founders of the great Congress and a short exposition of the philosophy of the new World Religion. Everything, it seemed, was under the domination of this all-powerful Congress.