Fletcher Pratt (18 page)

*
In view of this extreme mechanistic philosophy on the part of the Bodrog (or some of them) what follows later is not surprising. But one wonders whether Schierstedt's reporting of this conversation was not colored to some extent by after events.

"We are brought up to a different conception. We believe there is a higher power directing the universe."

"It is possible, but we have accepted the fact that this is something we cannot know about. Only we know that this higher power, if there is one, has established certain laws by which the universe is guided. A power so huge as to frame so great a universe cannot possibly be in the least interested in such infinitesimal pieces of matter as ourselves."

"Then you don't believe that the individual should allow his action to be influenced by the fear of favor of this higher power? What basis have you for ethics?"

He laughed again. "If such a higher power exists, what we do is as indifferent to it as what a bacterium does is to us. If the bacterium is noxious, we exterminate it, that is all. Nothing that the bacterium does has the least influence with us. It must be so between us and any higher power. As for ethics, what are they? Systems of conduct, not so? We have them not here. We know that the Scientific Board has removed personals of criminal tendencies and we tell truth. Lies are the basis of all infringements of ethics."

*
A good example of Schierstedt's most muddy style of description, which gains more and more control of him in the latter part of the narrative. This particular passage is well-nigh illegible in the manuscript. Apparently he is describing a handless time-piece with figures which run past a point, like the indicator of a modern radio set.

"I am to bring you up before the Scientific Board for Examination and Adjudication in two periods."

"By the way, how long is two periods?" I asked, "and what is your system of time? And do your scientific boards sit all day and all night? I find people going around at whatever hour I come out. I noticed this when I was taking walks with Hadeg."

"Your questions are too many. Certainly our scientific boards sit all night and day. How else to get work accomplished? It is not always the same members, some come and some go, but there are sufficient numbers on duty. Scientific board members must work or cease from their positions."

"That's one question. How about other people?"

"That also. Practically all labor is process work, involving the attention of highly skilled workers. They guard machines which must be kept going at all hours. Consequently at all hours there are workers of all kinds leaving or going to work. Their hours stop at irregular intervals to prevent traffic troubles.""Yes, yes. And your time system?"

"Based on the decimal. Our minute is practically the same as yours, though arrived at in different way—by averaging the pulse beats of many normal individuals and allotting a certain arbitrary number of these to a division of time. Twelve of these make a tenth and tenths a 'period.' A period corresponds to your hour, though it is nearly twice as long. Ten periods make a day. That is the time in which Murashema revolves on its axis. Ten days make a 'division,' the tenth being a holiday, and different holidays are for different people. Two hundred and thirty days, or ten divisions make a year. Our planet revolves about the sun in two hundred thirty-three days, so that every third, seventh and tenth year we add an intercalary division to make things straight."

By the time this explanation was complete we were at my room again, and for the time we had to wait sat down to watch the Murasheman newspaper screen, Ashembe explaining the importance of the various events as each unrolled its pageant before me.

The headquarters of the Scientific Board before which I was summoned were at some distance apparently, for we had a long ride in a two-man car before reaching it. More observing than on the previous trip, I noted that with each circle of seven buildings the architecture changed. Here the tall supporting columns of the building ran up side by side like the mass of some enormous pipe-organ; next would be a series of monoliths with shimmering walls of naked metal, and beyond that a dazzling pattern of geometrical blocks set at crazy angles and blazing with color.

We ascended the ramp to the center of a fine group of pillared construction. Ashembe led the way to a big room decorated in a pattern of varying shades of brown and furnished with a semi-circular desk or table about two feet across, with its face toward the glass outer wall of the room. At the center of this table were two chairs; my conductor led the way to them, seated himself and pointed out the other to me. I was in the presence of the great governing body of Murashema.

Around the outer border of the table were , seven or eight more chairs. Only two of them were occupied, one by an old man who was tinkering with an intricate model with shining metal rods sticking out of it, the other by a woman who was working the keys of a calculating machine. Several others were standing about the room in groups of two or three, talking or watching news pictures.

When we came in there was a general lifting of heads and a movement toward the table. I counted nine persons when they had taken their places, all but two of them men. All bore a recognizable mountain-top on the cloth of their shoulders.

Ashembe spoke first, rising and bending his knees before he began. I heard my name mentioned a couple of times and once he pointed to me, then sat down as a buzz of talk rose among my inquisitors. "I have told them," my companion said in a low voice, "who you are and have given them a little about your world. I have warned them that lying is considered customary there, but that I think your statements are to be trusted for the most part."

The Board, all but the old man who had been examining the model, were producing and adjusting tensal helmets as he spoke. When Ashembe finished, the old man turned directly to me and addressed to me a short speech ending with what, from the inflection of his voice, I took to be a question. Ashembe translated:

"With the technical details of your planet we will become acquainted through the report of Koumar Ashembe. They are not of great interest in any case, as it is unlikely that we will visit it again, in view of the fact that our respective suns are moving away from each other. What we wish you to tell is what points in your social and artistic organization are worthy of imitation. I must also tell you that your place in our commonwealth will be determined by your answers."

I caught my breath with a little gasp. "Unlikely we shall visit it again," "your place in our commonwealth"—these phrases struck me full in the face.

"—labor organization that are not clear, and we are unaware whether you may not belong to the remote class of labor troublers," Ashembe was translating. "What is your labor organization precisely?"

"What is your organization here?" I countered. "Everyone wears the badge of the class to which he belongs. There are the Biyamo, like your personal attendant. Then come the Hetheleg, who are the manual laborers. The Davex are workers of higher type, such as chemists and political administrators, then come the Bodrog, the Acle and finally the Scientific Board. Artists form a separate class, and below all are the imitative arts performers."

"Oh," I said, "I see. ... Why, no, there is no such sharp division with us. Manual laborers are, of course, held to belong to a lower class than men in administrative positions, so much so that though workers in certain lines of manual labor, such as bricklayers, earn more than any but the very highest grade of intellectual workers, there is constant difficulty in getting enough of these laborers to supply the demand. I am afraid that manual labor is looked upon as something of a disgrace." There was a stir of surprise among the helmeted members of the board. "You still adhere to the monetary system?"

"Yes."

"How do you select individuals for administrative duties? Are they the men who make the most money?"

"Frequently," I was obliged to confess. "We have what we call democracy. All the people elect the administrators and certain others who pass the laws as well as the judges."

"What is the result of selecting an incapable administrator?"

"There's nothing to be done but wait till his term runs out. They are elected for a short time only. Then we elect a different man."

Another stirring of the figures around the table.

"Who decides upon the ability of an administrator?" "The people at large."

"If an administrator is unable, but claims to be able, who contradicts him?"

"His opponent. There are usually two or more who wish the same office."

"Why? You said that the men who made the greatest rewards in money were most esteemed. Do administrative positions pay the largest rewards?"

"No. But they like the office, I suppose, and there is something in being paid by the public at large."

"Oh, you have the system of everybody contributing to pay officials. What becomes of the rest of the contributions? In such cases there is always a surplus."

"It is used for various public works."

"And the administrators have charge of these?"

"Yes."

There was a moment's silence. The old man said something in which a sneer could hardly be missed. "Oh, but that's not fair," I burst out. "They don't tap the treasury—" The old man spoke again.

"He says you are probably lying," Ashembe translated, "and that your social organization is so archaic that it has no interest. You will be asked to tell more about it later to a specialist in antiquarian institutions."

For a moment red rage gripped me.

"Are artists highly esteemed?" came the remorseless question.

"It depends," I told them, trying desperately to be fair in spite of my annoyance, "upon the degree of civilization in any particular country and what artistic taste it has. There is no complete answer. In general, yes." "What arts are most high?"

"Painting, writing, the theater, sculpture, music..." I began slowly.

"Painting we know, sculpture we know, and the theater. But how does the theater differ from writing?"

"Well, in the theater you see people in a performance. Writing is read from a book."

("I have added by means of printed characters," Ashembe whispered aside as they were considering the answer. "Is the change of your speech approved?" I nodded.)

"What do you write about?"

"Well, there are history, and philosophy, and biography, and fiction ... and essays ... and poetry...."

They seemed mystified.

"What is poetry?"

Frankly, I was stumped. (Let any man try to define it.) "Why ... it's the combination of various words so that they rhyme—no, that won't do—so that they have a musical sound and a certain rhythm ... and association values ... and a lot of other things."

More mystification and consultation. Then "Make some poetry," Ashembe translated.

My stock of memorized verse is hot large, although I am fond enough of poetry to have committed most of the pieces I like best to memory. I felt a perfect ass besides. However, I did the best I could.

"There
was
an old man of Peru,"
I struck out boldly,

"Who dreamed he was eating his shoe,

He woke in the night

In a terrible fright

And found it was perfectly true"

Again the tensals came off and there was a little buzz of admiration that almost drowned Ashembe's floundering effort to translate the verse.

"They are very much pleased," Ashembe reported. "They think your poetry is very fine indeed and a noble art. They wish you to recite more of it."

These queer people actually thought a limerick something extra! My wounded pride mended rapidly under the admiring glances of the august governing body of Murashema. Well, if they thought a limerick was good, how about some real poetry? Encouraged, I swung into the intoxicating music of "Atalanta in Calydon":

"When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,

The mother of months in meadow or plain—"

I broke down toward the end, not remembering beyond the "Maenad and the Bassarid" line, but the rendition, bad though it was, was received with a perfectly genuine and quite astounding burst of applause. One after another these rulers of worlds rose and made me the bent-kneed gesture of courtesy which is the highest form of appreciation with them, and when they had quieted down they demanded more.

I think I must have been kept there reciting poetry for the better part of an hour, giving them everything in my repertoire—even some snatches of epitaphs. Everything I offered was received with the same uncritical applause, and when I finally called a halt from sheer weariness they forgot to ask me any further questions and bowed me out with the announcement that I should hold myself ready to receive a special commissioner who would give me full information about my place in the Commonwealth of Murashema.

I fear I must pass over the next few periods hurriedly. Like those of a happy people, my annals were brief. I spent my days loafing around and looking at things with Hadeg or learning Murashema under the tutelage of Ashembe in the hours he could spare from his duties in the courts. Of other people I saw hardly any and spoke to none until the day the philosopher called.