A new voice blared out, not as loud as the first, but clear and sharp. “Citizens of the world!” it cried. “The future of mankind is in your hands! The government tells you that there is no danger—that the human race is not becoming sterile. The government lies! Find out the truth for yourself! Go to your doctor, have him examine you. Only one in ten is now capable of having children. If you are that lucky one, do not throw away your priceless heritage. Have children! Now, before it is too late!”
Men were running toward the center of the room; George heard shouts and a few screams. The voice — George’s own, recorded through a filter to make it unrecognizable—went on: “If the government is telling the truth, why is it afraid of open debate? Why are your newspapers censored? Why are you yourselves subject to illegal arrest and imprisonment without trial? Why—”
A flat explosion drowned the voice, then another. There was a new outburst of feminine screams, and a sudden violent movement away from the center. The S. P.s, George guessed, were shooting at the playback mechanism he had bribed a workman to set up among the lanterns. It was time to get away.
His recorded voice went on, but another drowned it out. “No one is to leave! Unmask, everyone, and stand where you are!”
The movement away from the center continued. In the press, Hilda was clinging to his arm, shouting something at him. He broke away and dived into the crowd, heading for the side exit he had spotted before.
He was a little too late. The crowd was in full motion now, as irresistible as a charging herd of cattle. Ahead of him, he saw an S. P. man vainly struggling to turn and halt those behind. He saw the flash of a revolver; then someone clubbed the man in the neck and he went down under the feet of the crowd.
George had a sudden, terrified thought: What it that should happen to Hilda? But he was caught in the tide of bodies; it was useless even to think of turning back.
The wide doors of the main entrance had been thrown open, but there was still a bottleneck. The pressure grew until George thought his ribs would crack; then he was out and running desperately to keep from being trampled.
An S. P. car was pulled up at the opposite curb and, as he watched, another joined it. S. P.s tumbled out, tried to form a line. The crowd overwhelmed them. There were shouts of “A bas les flics!” and roars of laughter scattered among the screams.
The crowd’s temper was changing from fear to defiance. There would be broken windows and broken heads in Paris tonight.
George’s devil costume was now as dangerous as the witch doctor robes; anybody in carnival dress who was unlucky enough to meet a policeman would be arrested. He stopped in an alley to strip them both off—he wore a singlet and shorts underneath and then put the noise of the rioting behind him before he crossed the Seine to his hotel.
On the sidewalk in front of the hotel a huge N/M! was chalked—the symbol of the Committee Against Human Extinction, N/M in French and Spanish, G/T in German, B/D in English: Birth or Death! They had begun it themselves, flying from city to city, one to a continent; the people had taken it up.
He thought again of Hilda, and looked at his wrist phone. They no longer used the personal phones to communicate among themselves, since it was possible that the S. P. was monitoring all such calls; but it would do no harm to call Hilda, especially if he kept the contact short. He pressed the buttons that coded her number.
“Yes?” said her warm voice. “This is Hilda Place.”
“It’s George,” he told her. “Are you all right?”
“George, where are you? I must see you. Joe is here with me. Tell me where you are and we’ll dash over.”
“It wouldn’t do,” said George regretfully. “I only wanted to know if you got out all right.”
“Yes, George, of course. But—”
“Good night, Hilda,” he said, and broke the connection.
It was almost time for the hourly newscast, but George sat for a few moments staring at the dead vision set, thinking about Hilda. Then he began thinking about himself and Hilda, which was more complicated.
He hardly knew what it was he felt about Hilda, except that he wanted her. He knew that there was no basis for a settled relationship between them, but his mind rebelled at the knowledge.
Well, if they succeeded in this, things would be different. Everybody would have to revise his view of life. The family would revive; religion with it, probably. The changes would go deep into the social structure, as Art and Luther said: affecting manners, morals, ultimately every department of human life.
Not all at once, of course. For one thing, fewer than one person in ten would manage to become a parent before reaching the sterile age; and not all of those would be able, or want, to equate parenthood with marriage.
George’s own part in the new world was still hazy to him. He tried valiantly once more to see himself happily married to Hilda, and once more failed. The picture was simply wrong, in every way. He didn’t have the conjugal temperament, and neither, he was sure, did Hilda. What was going to become of them, who had been born into this childless world of cautious carelessness and sage superficiality, and knew no other?
That was rather good, George told himself. He was surprised and pleased; his wit was ordinarily of the evanescent variety, not worth using more than once. When he wrote his memoirs—
There was a knock on the door.
“Entrez,” said George, and the door, keyed to his voice, swung open. Two S. P. men stood there. They did not hesitate, but strode rapidly toward him.
With an effort, George relaxed his tensed muscles and looked at the advancing officers with what he hoped was the right mixture of alarm and indignation.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” he demanded.
The taller officer had a sheaf of photographs in his hand. He riffled them rapidly, selected one, and looked keenly from it to George’s face several times. He said something in an undertone to the other man.
The short, stocky one drew his gun and stepped aside. “I shall have to request you to come with us, monsieur. A formality only. If you are innocent, you will be freed.”
“But what is the charge?” asked George.
“You are wanted for questioning in connection with the riot at the Beaux Arts Ball, monsieur.”
“I wasn’t even there!” George protested.
The officer shrugged. “That may be, monsieur. It is believed that the instigator of the riot is not a native of Paris. Therefore, we are investigating all guests of hotels. Those whose appearances are similar to those on these photographs are to be brought in for questioning. You are not under formal arrest, monsieur, unless you insist.”
George felt a hollowness at the pit of his stomach. Such an obvious move and they had not thought of it! He said, “Very well,” and moved toward the door. The tall officer grasped his arm, the other fell in behind them.
At the doorway, George lunged forward. As the tall officer instinctively pulled back, George followed his motion, turning at the same time and putting the heel of his hand under the other man’s chin. He shoved, hard, and the officer went reeling back into the room. George slammed the door in their faces and ran.
The elevator was not at this floor. He dived down the staircase, took the first flight four steps at a time, and doubled back on the floor below’ to the other staircase. He guessed that the S. P.s had come by car; for a house-to-house search, it would be more efficient than ’copters. If he was right, he had a fair chance of hailing a cab and getting away before they found him.