He saw that she was composing herself with an effort. She climbed back on her stool with a lithe motion. “I am not here to discuss this matter with you, Mr. Lucas. I was given a technical background only so that I can determine when you try to step outside the approved limitations. You and men like you are as dangerous to this civilization as uncontrolled fire. That is why you are watched so carefully. If you persist in continuing this discussion, I will report you to the Chief of the Bureau of Improvement.”
Lucas sighed. “Okay, lady. Okay.” He picked up a pair of tweezers, used them to pick up the tiny brushes. He held them up. “Just so you can follow me. This little pin here which supports the brushes is okay. The self-lubricating bearings are okay. But the airseal is bad and dust has leaked in and turned the lubricating agent to an abrasive, thus wearing down the pin until the brushes get an eccentric wobble. My next step will be to look up the table of rubber substitutes and find something we can use for the airseal, something that will have a longer life. Okay with you?”
Once again she quoted from the manual. “ ‘It is the responsibility of the monitor to determine that all research is along approved lines and to report any suspected variance to the Floor Monitor for investigation. In no case will the monitor express an opinion about research which falls within the approved fields.’ ”
Once again her face was calm and composed. Lucas snorted, crossed over to the book shelf, brought back the rubber substitutes manual, looked up the proper table and made notations on a pad.
He took the bill of materials for the tiny motor, drew a neat line through the specification for the airseal, lettered in the symbol for the new material, put the bill of materials and the faulty seal in a manila envelope, shoved the rest of the motor parts into the scrap bin. One tiny screw somehow became caught in the fold of flesh at the base of his thumb. He turned back toward the window and idly picked at his tooth with his thumbnail. As he did so he rolled the little screw up until he could grasp it with his thumb and finger. He inserted it into the painful cavity in a back molar from which he had extracted the filling the night before.
In search, the little screw would give the same metallic index as the filling.
The nerve was raw and pain screamed at him. But he smiled, yawned and said, “Morrit, we’d better call it a day.”
She glanced at the clock. “Ten more minutes.”
“Too late to start a new one.” Once again he looked toward the dead city, toward that decaying functional building. “Morrit, did you ever think about the dead city? About the reason for it?”
This time her quote was taken from the Approved World History. “ ‘With the continual shrinkage of population, many cities were completely abandoned because of unsatisfactory climate or other factors, while, in the more desirable cities, the oldest parts were abandoned, the remaining inhabitants taking over the most desirable portions.’ ”
“Quoting and thinking are two different things, sugar bun. Once there were five million people in this city. Now what are there? Eight hundred thousand? Maybe we’re just genetically weary, Morrit. Dame Nature is dwindling us down to fit in the barren world we’ve made for ourselves.”
Morrit did not quote. Her eyes narrowed. “And who was to blame, Mr. Lucas? The black-hearted men of progress. They blasted the earth and killed so much of the soil that millions starved. That’s why they’ll be forever hated by the race. And they called themselves ‘creators’ and ‘scientists.’ You should feel shame when you think those thoughts, Mr. Lucas. Because you are one of them. Oh, we have you under rigid control now. You can’t do us any harm. You are the servant of the race, like fire. We direct your efforts.”
Lucas ran his hand through his cropped dark hair, his strong lean face oddly twisted. “Morrit, why is it that we can’t think the same way at all? Why is this wall between us all the time?”
She quoted from the manual. “ ‘Scientific aptitude is a dangerous mutational characteristic which blinds the individual to anything except his creative desires, making it impossible for him to understand the strict channeling of his efforts into those fields which will benefit mankind without opening the doorways to unknown terrors.’ ”
Lucas controlled his anger by biting down on the tiny screw, forcing it into the naked nerve, letting pain drain the fury from him.
Suddenly very tired, he said, “The ten minutes are up, my love.”
The high fence bordered a narrow area half a mile long, leading to the small white houses provided for the workers at the Bureau of Improvement.
Peter Lucas, dressed in his street clothes, waited until several others had gone through search. When there were ten, a Bureau guard walked with them over to the housing area.
The precaution dated from the time when a mob had broken through the fence and torn three workers apart. Sometimes, even now, the heritage of sullen hate exploded into mob fury.
Lucas noticed that the other nine greeted him with less than their usual friendliness. Word must be getting around that he was marked as uncontrollable.
In the old days that would have meant a quick, painless death. But they had devised a new sort of death: a death of the mind. The electric knife would make a neat incision, cutting away memory and ability. Then the walking and talking school for the period of incontinence; and a nice manual labor assignment.
They arrived at the small white house. There were sixty of them. It was a pitifully small number of workers, sixty men to carry on every bit of scientific effort in the world. And even that was a joke. They were not research workers; they were mechanics.
From the doorway of his quarters he could see, ten miles from the city, the myriad shining towers of World Administration. When all governments had disintegrated, after the brutal impact of the Three Wars, the men who had seized power had a knowledge of propaganda. Emery Ladu was called the Chairman, not the Dictator or King.
Ladu’s palace was the World Administration Building. There he met with his five Princes, one from each world mass. Only they were called Unit Advisors. Lin of Eurasia Unit. Morol of Africa Unit. Frisee of Australia Unit. Ryan of North America Unit. Perez of South America.
The World Administration Building was the symbol of their reign. In some secret place a young man was being trained for each of them; a man to take each position. It was defense in depth. Nothing was left to chance.
There was no population pressure any more. And with the passing of this pressure, the prime motivating force for war vanished. The standard of living was built on an economy of abundance. And the abundance was a legacy from the billions who had inhabited the earth. In all the vacant houses of the dead cities of the world there were the pots and pans and chairs and tables free for the taking.
With design made static, except for minor and unimportant improvements, there was no obsolescence of mechanical things. With adequate care, a car of popular make would last several generations.
This was the only world Peter Lucas knew. It had been, at one time, a good world. There had been a home and comforting warmth and the old books which told of cowboys and soldiers. He had taken the examinations when he was twelve.
And then there had been tears in that home, tears and strangeness: a restraint that showed his parents’ grief... as though they had discovered he was something monstrous and obscene, and their love for him fought against this new knowledge.
That year there had been three hundred thousand children. Each year there were less. Before Ladu’s edict, in the old days, there would have been an efficient use of anaesthesia. The race had been cutting out the cancerous growth that insisted on returning with each generation.