Jensen Fontaine bent a beady eye on the politician and said, leadingly, “My country, may she always be right…”
Hopkins said easily, “I agree with you, sir. But to answer my question.”
Fontaine snapped, “I’ll tell you the cause. Soviet Complex sabotage. Subversion of American industry. Underground…”
“And how would they have accomplished this?”
“That’s not my job. You birds down in Greater Washington have been infiltrated. Even the Department of Justice. I suspect the C.I.A. could turn up the culprits soon enough if they weren’t honeycombed with Commie agents. Furthermore…”
Dwight Hopkins said, “You are free to go, Mr. Fontaine. Our thanks for your cooperation.”
Fontaine was just getting into stride. He raised an arm to wave in emphasis, and it was taken firmly by Colonel Williams. “I’ll show you to the door, sir.”
Mulligan’s eyes went from Hopkins to the semi-struggling Fontaine. “See here, you can’t treat Mr. Fontaine that way!” he blatted.
The white Hopkins’ eyebrows went up. “Do your own opinions coincide with his, Mr. Mulligan?”
Mulligan was the second to be ushered out.
Dwight Hopkins looked at Helen, Buzz and Ed Wonder. “I have read the reports. You three were the ones I really wished to talk to anyway. I am sorry, Miss Fontaine, if my handling of your father seemed cavalier.”
“Bounce it,” Helen said, making a moue. “Daddy can use a little cavalier treatment.”
The president’s right hand man leaned back in his chair and regarded them solemnly.
He said, “A week ago Friday, TV and radio became inoperative. For several hours the government took no action. It was assumed that the industry would soon discover the cause and remedy it. However, when it became known that the phenomenon was worldwide, an emergency committee was named. The following day, the president released special funds to increase the size of the committee and give it more arbitrary powers. The following day the committee became a commission. And the day after, in secret session, the Congress voted unlimited resources and I was named head of this project and responsible only to the president. General Crew and Professor Braithgale here, are my assistants.”
Buzz De Kemp was evidently awed not even by such as Dwight Hopkins. He had brought one of his inevitable stogies from his pocket and as he searched for matches, said around it, “You people sure seem to be in a tizzy over moron level entertainment. The major was telling us, last night, it’s as important as a war. And…”
“A nuclear war, Mr. De Kemp,” Hopkins said.
“Don’t be silly,” Helen said.
Dwight Hopkins looked at the tall gray civilian. “Professor Braithgale, will you enlighten us a bit on the ramifications of the situation which confronts us?”
The professor’s voice was dry and clear, and he lectured, rather than conversed.
“What happens to a civilization when there is an economy of abundance and no publicly provided entertainment?”
The trio, Ed, Buzz and Helen, frowned simultaneously at him, but neither tried an answer. It was obviously rhetorical.
He went on. “The average human being is not capable of self-programming. At least as he is today. He can’t think up tasks to occupy himself. He’s never had to. Man evolved under conditions where the time and energy he had available were programmed for him; he worked, and he worked twelve to eighteen hours a day. All day, every day. Or he starved. What to do with his time was determined for him. What recreation there was, was very seldom; purely traditional games and dances were a vast relief and entertainment. He never got a chance to become bored with them—he got to play them too seldom. That situation lasted for 99.99 percent of the history of the species.”
Braithgale eyed them, and his voice went drier still “Now it’s true that leisure is essential for creative activity. Until there is a leisure class, a group with time to do something besides subsist, there is very little opportunity for cultural progress. But, leisure doesn’t automatically produce creativity.
“So the question becomes, what happens to a culture with plenty of everything—except predetermined activity for the noncreative average man? In other words, what happens to this affluent society, this Welfare State of ours, if we take away radio, motion pictures, and especially television—television, the common man’s pacifier.”
Ed was scowling. “Vaudeville,” he ventured. “The legitimate theatre. Circuses. Carnivals.”
The professor nodded. “Yes, but I submit that they would provide but a drop in the bucket, even when and if we get them organized and train the needed talent. How much time can people spend that way?”
Buzz brought his paperback from his jacket pocket and waved it at the other. “There’s reading.”
Braithgale shook his head. “The average human does not like to read, Mr. De Kemp. It requires that they contribute a great deal of mental activity themselves. They have to visualize the actions from the words, imagine the voice tones, the facial expressions, and so forth. They are not up to such creative labor.”
The professor seemed to switch subjects. “Do you recall ever having read of the riots which swept Constantinople during Justinian’s reign as a result of a minor squabble over the horse races? Well, several tens of thousands of persons lost their lives.”
He remained silent for a moment, looking at them, to achieve emphasis. Then, “It is my belief that the thing that eventually destroyed Rome was the growth of an immense leisure class. Rome was no longer a subsistence culture, the colonies supported it. The populace was awarded free food. They had leisure but no self-programming creativity.”
Braithgale wound it up. “A man wants something to do. But if he hasn’t the ability to invent something to do, what happens when you take away his TV, his radio, his movies?”
Ed said, “I’ve been reading of the riots in England—and in Chicago, for that matter.”
The major general rumbled to Hopkins, “We’ve got to bear down some more on those darned journalists. They’re letting too much of that sort of report get through.”
Dwight Hopkins didn’t answer him. Instead, he tapped a thick sheaf of papers on his desk and spoke to Ed, Buzz and Helen. “Frankly, your account astonishes me and leaves me incredulous. However, you have this in your favor; you corroborate each other. Hadn’t it been for the matter of the cinema, which is utterly inexplainable in terms of atmospheric disturbances, I admit that I would not be inclined to consider your account at all. However… what is the trouble, Mr. De Kemp?”
They all looked at the rumpled newsman who was, in turn, goggling the pocketbook he held in his hands. “I must’ve picked up the wrong copy,” he said, unbelievingly. “But I couldn’t have.” He looked up at them, as though accusingly. “This thing’s in French.”
Ed scowled down at it, wondering at the other’s confusion. “That’s not French. It looks like German to me.”
Helen said, “It’s not German. I studied German a bit. It looks like Russian.”
Buzz said defensively, “Don’t be kooky. It’s not even in the Cyrillic alphabet. I say it’s French. But it couldn’t be. I was reading it just before I came in here. And the cover illustration is the same and…”
Professor Braithgale unfolded his lanky form and came to his feet. “Let me see that,” he said drily. “I can read and write in all the Romance languages, German, Swedish and Russian. I don’t know what has come up but…” His sentence drifted off. His usually quiet gray eyes boggled. “It is… it is in Sanscrit, I think.”