No man is an island. When we look at each other—white and Negro, male and female, child and adult. Communist and Bircher, scientist and humanist—no matter what labels we pin on ourselves, we look to some extent into a mirror. Creators and creations both, each of us is part of the total culture and environment in which we meet and observe each other. Whether we will someday meet an intelligent alien enough to be accurately observed, remains to be seen. For now, perhaps we had best just accept the existence of the scientist, the engineer, and even the TV technician, as inalienable parts of our society. We may then, instead of trying to isolate components, begin upon the useful study of (take your choice; take both) scientific humanity and human science.
Cliff Owsley is a representative of another subspecies unique to contemporary society: the PR people. As chief of press and writing for the U. S. Forest Service in Washington, he occupies a position commanding a superior view for observation.
CONFESSIONS OF THE FIRST NUMBER
Cliff Owsley
It was inevitable. Sooner or later somebody had to be picked for the rare honor of being the first to give up his name for a digit. The first, that is, outside of regular prisons. My number (or name, as I’ve come to call it) is now 420 03 2557. My first number is 420, not much different from a three-syllable name such as Adelbert. The middle name or initial is 03, no more difficult than any two-syllable name, say Jasper. And the last or surnumber is 2557, no more unwieldy than a name such as Vanlandingham.
As I said, rather well I thought, at the announcement ceremony, “I am honored to be the first person to orbit into the outer space of numerical security.” That pleased the man there from the new agency in Washington handling the conversion, the National Agency for Numerical Security (NANS).
At first I didn’t want to give up my name, though it was not anything special except perhaps to me. Still, it was mine and I had been known by it for a number of years. I rather liked it. Yet most of those I deal with apparently had me down as a number anyway. Reluctantly I agreed, after the mayor of our town kept telling me I would be a pioneer, the first into a new age, and in that way would achieve a certain distinction. Something like the first man into space.
Out of some twenty numbers I had to deal with, including the latest, my ZIP code, it was finally decided that my social security number would be best. It was one of the longest and could eventually absorb the others. Besides, the Internal Revenue Service was already calling me by that number, which made it feel warm and familiar.
So they had this big ceremony. The mayor and other local dignitaries and friends were there along with the man from Washington. He made a speech about how practical and humanitarian it would be for everyone to have a number instead of a name. It would promote mass efficiency and true democracy and equality, he said; then no one would have a distinctive name nor a particularly poor one. He said, too, that it would raise the morale of all those in regular prisons since they would no longer feel discriminated against. I felt better after his speech.
Everyone congratulated me and kept calling me 420, or Mr. 2557, or just plain “4” (my nicknumber). After a while it began to sound natural. Reporters were there with a lot of questions.
“What do you really think of being a number instead of a name?” one reporter asked.
What do I think?! Why should I think? Let the computers do the thinking.
—420 03 2557.
(Formerly Cliff Owsley)
Extrasensory Perception: Also ESP. An inadmissible mode of cognition in which an external event presents itself to none of the five known senses. Telepathy and clairvoyance are two common modes of ESP; the former is the extrasensory perception of the mental activities of another person; the latter is the extrasensory perception of events that have already happened, or that are happening, or that are about to happen. Though investigations of purported ESP phenomena manage to discredit most of them, they do not discredit all of them; moreover, there is a small body of experimental data strongly suggesting paranormal cognition in certain subjects. However, at this point ESP is more an embarrassment than a legitimate concern of science (q.v.). Like soup spilled at a banquet, it is seen but ignored.
(The Domesday Dictionary)
THE MING VASE
E. C. Tubb
The antique shop was one of those high-class places which catered only to the very rich and the very possessive. A single vase of hand-worked glass stood in one window, an Egyptian Solar Boat in the other, between them the door presented a single expanse of unbroken glass to the street outside.
Don Gregson paused before it, deep-set eyes curious as they stared at the street. There was no trace of the accident. The wreckage had been removed and the rain had washed away the last traces of blood. Even the inevitable sightseers had gone about their business. Turning back to the door he pushed it open and stepped into the warmth inside.
Earlman was there, and Bronson, both standing beside a small, elderly man with delicate hands and intelligent eyes. Some assistants hovered discreetly in the background. The police had left and Don was glad of it. Earlman stepped forward.
“Hi, Don. You made good time.”
“The general sees to that. Is that the owner?” Max nodded, gesturing to the little man. Quickly he made the introductions.
“Mr. Levkin this is Don Gregson, C.I.A., Special Detachment.”
They shook hands, Don surprised at the wirey strength in the delicate fingers. Bronson, as usual, merely stood and watched; a coiled spring waiting his moment of release.
“I wish we could have met under happier circumstances,” said Don to the owner. “Please tell me all about it.”
“Again?”
“If you please. First-hand reports are always the most reliable.”
Levkin shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture almost as old as time.
“I have been robbed,” he said with simple understatement. “I have been robbed of the most precious item in my shop. It was small, a vase from the Ming Dynasty, but it was beautiful. You understand?”
“How small?”
Levkin gestured with his hands and Don nodded.
“About six inches high, small enough to slip into a pocket. You said it was valuable. How valuable?”
“I said it was precious,” corrected the owner. “How do you value a work of art? The price is what the purchaser is prepared to pay. Let me say only that I have refused one hundred thousand dollars for it.”
Earlman grunted, his thin, harassed face and dark, bruised-looking eyes veiled behind the smoke of his cigarette.
“Tell us about the man.”
“He was medium built, medium height, well-dressed, brown hair and eyes… remarkable eyes. About a hundred and seventy pounds, softly spoken, very gentle and polite.”
Over Levkin’s head Earlman caught Don’s eye and nodded.
“Nothing ostentatious,” continued Levkin. “Nothing which gave a hint that he was not what he seemed. I had no reason to suspect that he was a thief.”
“He isn’t,” said Don, then frowned at his own absurdity. “Go on.”
“We spoke. He was interested in rare and beautiful things, it was natural that I should show him the vase. Then there was a crash in the street, an accident. Inevitably we turned and headed towards the door. It was a bad accident, our attention was distracted, but only for a moment. It was enough. By the time I remembered the man had gone and he had taken the vase with him.”