The Boulevard of Social Concern was the main street, leading past numerous groups of buildings, signs designating each complex by number. He saw 501 go by, and made his way to the front of the bus.
The driver beamed at him. “We’re getting happier every day, citizen.”
“Aren’t we, though?”
He paid for the irony with a twinge or two of gastric pain.
Building C of Complex 502 looked increasingly shabbier the closer he got to it. Intended to be lean and functional, it looked only weathered and threadbare. The bare concrete was cracked and streaked with water stains, and the tiny windows made the place look more like a prison than an apartment building. The surrounding grounds were clear of trash but looked desolate. The grass was stunted and looked dead, gone brown and dry.
He passed through a cracked glass door and entered the lobby. It was empty except for a few stacked fiberglass chairs and an underused bulletin board. He waited for the elevator.
The elevator never came. His apartment number, so the instruction sheet said, was 502-C-346. He found a stairwell and went up to the third floor.
The door to 346 was open. There was no lock.
It was a one-room apartment with two small windows and walls of unpainted concrete block. The floor was bare concrete. The place was perfunctorily furnished: a cot, one table, one chair, and a small settee. A lidless toilet stood in a corner next to a tiny sink. There was a kitchen of sorts — a hot plate and a cabinet. No refrigerator, no kitchen sink. The walls were devoid of decoration and there were no curtains on the windows.
Set in the wall in front of the settee was an oblong screen. It displayed:
MESSAGE WAITING
TOUCH SCREEN TO START
He was sorry he had looked at it. It was an order, and if he disobeyed … He managed to put off activating the message until a synthesized voice came out of the speaker below it.
“There is a message waiting for you. Touch the screen to start the message. Touch twice if you want the visual display only and no audio.”
He touched twice. The screen came to life.
Cognomen: BKFVGD
Omnicode: 2-
Message: You are late. You must not tarry when you are told to report somewhere. Do not hurry, but do not waste time. Step right along. Tardiness is unsocial. InnerVoice will remind you of this in the future.
Your program for the rest of the day is as follows:
• In your free moments, familiarize yourself with your new living facility. Report any deficiencies to your Residential Complex Supervisor’s office.
• Watch the one-hour Information Special that will follow this message. You must watch at least two Information Special programs per day, and at least one hour of general programming, for a total of three hours of screen viewing time per day. This routine must be followed always, except on designated Special Days. The viewing schedule will be altered on these days to permit various activities: parades, Solidarity Meetings, etc.
TOUCH SCREEN TO CONTINUE MESSAGE
He brushed the screen with his finger and more lettering filled the lighted oblong.
• Report to your building refectory for dinner. You also have the option of eating in. You may procure food at your nearest Grocery Outlet.
• After dinner, watch the Information Special program that will start at 1900.
• After the program you have one hour free time until Lights Out. You may continue to watch general programming or you may sit and get in touch with InnerVoice. Remember: peace is constant struggle.
• At Lights Out you will go to bed and sleep for eight (8) hours. You will awake refreshed and happy, ready to face the challenges of the new day.
Your Schedule Tomorrow:
Tomorrow you will report at 0800 to the Committee on Employment, Job Training Subcommittee, Building 1. Complex 122, Dedication Drive. Be prompt. Watch this screen tomorrow for further details. That is all. You may proceed with implementation of the rest of today’s schedule.
He had already familiarized himself with his “living facility.”
He sat down. What would happen if he got on a bus, went to the edge of the city, got off, and kept walking? Perhaps this direct approach would work if he could keep his mind occupied somehow, if he could in some way not dwell on the fact that he was doing something forbidden.
But was that possible? He had his doubts. No, his unconscious reactions would not escape InnerVoice. And there was nothing he could do about his unconscious — or “subconscious,” to use the popular term.
Yet there had to be a way. Somehow the monitoring process would have to be defeated, or at least misled, until he could get to the castle. There, magic could be employed to rectify matters. But could he get as far as the portal? He did not know. That was not the only problem. He had no good reason to believe that the portal was still at the same location. It might have shifted again, or may well have disappeared altogether. He berated himself for being so foolish as to blunder through before checking things out. He should have immediately summoned Tyrene and alerted everybody that something was wrong with the Earth aspect.
But the portal could have stayed put. He had no choice but to assume that it had and proceed from that assumption. So it was a matter of getting to the portal. He had to come up with a way of thwarting InnerVoice for as long as it took to get that far.
He was getting nauseated.
He was dismayed but not surprised. InnerVoice was probably extending and refining its control of his bodily functions. Eventually even stray rebellious thoughts would be punished. It was a powerful system of oppression, self-perfecting and self-perpetuating, more effective than any secret-police force or surveillance system.
The screen brightened and a program came on. He sat and watched, trying to let the banal content — something about happy agricultural workers meeting new higher quotas — occupy the front part of his mind while he continued his scheming in the shadows.
The ploy seemed to work, but he could not come up with any solutions. For the moment he was stuck in this strange world.
When the program ended, something like a panel quiz show came on. Since he was under no compulsion to watch it, he looked for controls on the screen. There were none. He had to let it play.
He didn’t relish the prospect of another cafeteria meal, so he went out to look for a food store.
He walked several blocks before he encountered what passed for a business district. Finding what he took to be a supermarket, he went in.
The place was virtually devoid of stock. The shelves held not much but empty packing cartons. There were a few items. There must have been an adequate potato harvest this year. Even at that, much of the stock was mushy and nearly rotten, alive with sprouting eyes. He found a few that were edible. There were no shopping carts or bags, so he broke off the eyes and stuffed the spuds in his pocket. He found canned goods. Most were vegetables, but he did come up with a lone can of “Beans (Baked).”
That was enough to get him through a day and keep him out of the awful cafeterias. As usual there was no paying for anything, so he walked out of the store.
On his way home he found himself following a woman. She was blond, her hair done in the unflattering pageboy style that was prevalent. Her figure — from what he could make of it through the baggy clothes — was trim and attractive. He drew abreast of her and glanced at her face.
She wore no makeup. Her eyes were pale blue and her lips thin. She had a pronounced chin and an upturned nose. On the whole she was not unattractive.
He wondered how reproduction was handled here. Were there married couples, families? He somehow doubted it. Mating centers, the offspring raised by the state. Worse, insemination centers supplied by mandatory donations. He had seen no children at all. Were they all sequestered in crèches? The thought of tiny children being inoculated with diabolical mind-controlling bacteria made him shiver.