So did he, George realized.
II
SUNLIGHT, divided by the prism high in the arched ceiling, struck full on the paintings that lined either side of the long, curving gallery, and left the center, the moving strip with its divans, its cafe tables and chairs, in a soft, restful gloom.
“Here we come around again,” said George. “Another of the same?” Joe Krueger looked at his; empty glass. “Yes, but this round’s mine. You’ve been paying for everything.”
“That will complicate things, though,” objected George. “Tell you what. You can buy our tickets to the shadow plays tonight.”
As they approached the checker in his little booth, George took the green disk with the tab that said TOM COLLINS and the orange and white one that said SCOTCH/SODA and stuck them into the clip on the table’s center pole.
Around the center pole were four illuminated plastic cylinders which reeled off the names of the paintings as they passed. Picasso, they were saying, MASK AND BONES, OIL ON CANVAS, 2073. TSCHELETCHEW, FLIGHT FORMS #6, INK AND CRAYON, 2105. SHAHN, INCUBATORS, OIL ON CANVAS.
“I’d like to see more of his,” said Joe, looking at the Shahn. “His stuff seems more vital than most, somehow. More—” He hunted for a word, gave it up with his usual embarrassed shrug.
“He’s younger,” said George. “Picasso, Tscheletchew and all that bunch were old men when the longevity treatment came in. They’re still turning out the same thing, pretty much, that they were doing three centuries ago. It does get tiresome, I admit, but who’s interested in art when there are other things to do and see? We’ve gone a long way in more important directions, if you ask me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Joe emphatically.
“Besides, the Culture Commissioner tells them what to turn out. Works fine for everybody.”
The serving station came around. The white-jacketed waiter stepped neatly aboard, smiled, deposited their drinks, and stepped off again. The cylinders announced, RENOIR, BAIGNEUSE, OIL ON CANVAS, 1888.
George stirred his drink moodily. Joe was now watching the paintings attentively, and he felt free to let his thoughts wander. After Hilda had gone home last night — not with George, worse luck! — the four of them had gathered in the study again for a council of war. This time it had been, Morey Stiles who had led the discussion. He had pointed out that the project couldn’t possibly be managed on a small scale, that in spite of the danger they had to have an organization. He was right, of course; after all, they’d need an enormous staff who would have to know what was going on, not to mention the several thousands of women who would have to be persuaded to give birth.
Luther, warming to the problem, had been all for secret meetings in basements, and an elaborate organization based on the ancient Communist system. He had been voted down. The plan, as they finally evolved it, centered around doctors—specialists in women’s complaints, for preference—who were to be recruited and sworn in by Levinson. It would be their job to test their patients for fertility, carefully sound out the pick of the lot, and recruit them in turn. Meanwhile Morey, as the team’s best administrator, would be drawing up plans’ for the birth centers, inspecting locations, bribing officials, and so on. Luther, who had the widest acquaintance among monied men, would scout for more capital.
There had seemed to be nothing left for George to do but to pony up when required and to keep his mouth shut. Levinson had told him, however, that there would ultimately have to be a somewhat risky attempt to reach the public, and George, because of his youth and daring, would be very valuable in that phase of the conspiracy. When? Levinson didn’t know.
And Hilda, who had only just got into town, was off again to some mysterious destination for an unspecified length of time.
Anyhow, he had Joe to feel superior to; he ought to be grateful for that. He felt mildly ashamed of himself when he glanced at the man and saw the eagerness in his face. Perhaps that was the answer to the question of ennui, he thought—get yourself knocked on the head, or have your memories surgically excised somehow, and start all over again.
That wasn’t such a foolish idea as it might seem, he told himself. After all, nobody knew yet what real longevity was like; nobody was older than three or four centuries. What would happen when they were all three thousand or more?
There was plenty of time to worry about it, at least.
He said, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
Joe repeated, “I’ve been reading histories like mad, but I can’t seem to take it all in. Things are so much the same, in some ways, and yet so different.” He shook his head. “I suppose I’m trying to get it too fast.”
“Well, there isn’t exactly any rush,” said George cheerfully. “Anything in particular bothering you?”
“No children, chiefly, I guess. It’s hard for me to understand how that could possibly be enforced. In my day, population was always increasing to meet the available food supply; it was supposed to be some kind of natural law. And now you’ve stopped it cold.”
“Had to,” said George. “You see, the fellows who perfected the longevity techniques published their work, and the newspapers took it up, and the thing got completely out of control in the next fifty years. Normal birth rate— higher, as a matter of fact—and the death rate way down. That was the time of the big blowup—famines, riots, and the Last War on top of it. When we came out of that, we had three things: longevity, a strong world government, and a greatly improved birth control technique. Those pills, you know, that everybody has to take.
“Well, what else was there to do? They had to cut down the birth rate, at least, or in a century or so we would have been standing on each other’s shoulders. And that would have been unenforceable, you know — restricted breeding. You can’t tell anybody that he’s not as fit as the next man to have children. So they stopped it altogether, made childbirth a capital crime. As a result, the total population has shrunk a good deal in the last three hundred years, but we’re still over what’s regarded as the optimum figure. Or so they say.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, restricted breeding is an awfully hot potato. We’ll have to come to it eventually, but I don’t think anybody in the government is happy about the prospect. If we started reproducing in any quantity, the whole economic balance would be upset. Tremendously complicated problem. I don’t know enough about it to explain to you properly.”
“I should think it would be particularly hard on the women,” said Joe thoughtfully.
“Well, there were a lot of people, men and women both, who couldn’t adjust to longevity it -self, let alone the other problems. In the first century after the war, I understand suicide accounted for something like fifteen per cent of the death rate. Looking at it from one angle, that was a good thing for the race. I mean to say, if a person has any fundamental instability, it’s going to come out in two centuries or less. And people for whom there simply wasn’t any room in the society. Without children consuming and not producing, you know, our production rate is enormously higher. There was a lot of unemployment, too, in that first century. Some starvation, I’m afraid. And crime waves. But that’s all settled down now, and as you see we have a very stable setup, and a high living standard. That’s why it’s going to be so difficult to change when we have to.”
“Umm,” said Joe, seriously.
It occurred to George that he had been talking rather seriously himself, not exactly the best line to take for a man with knowledge he was supposed to conceal. He smiled cheerfully and said, “But I don’t think anybody should work up an ulcer over it just yet. You can generally lick a problem if you have a few thousand years to mull it over.”