Read Ebook: The Argosy Vol. 51 No. 5 May 1891 by Various Wood Charles W Charles William Editor

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That's why he found himself drawn irresistibly to Julie; she wasn't a slave to convention. That's why he liked to meet her in the darkness of the outside, when the curfew forbade anyone venturing into the night--at least, that was one reason. She was part of the forbidden fruit he secretly desired and vowed would have.

A government official's benign face appeared on the television screen to announce the Super State program. The World Flag materialized, waving in a studio-inspired breeze, and a chorus chanted: "Super State, Super State, Simply great is Super Sta-a-ate!"

"Sixty minutes of uninterrupted commercial," Arthur Dunlop thought with distaste. Plays and songs subtly presented to show that contemporary living was equivalent to a golden age. He was careful, however, not to let his face reveal his mind's opinion.

"The airtax man will be around to read the meter tonight," Helen reminded him.

"Fine," he murmured, but already he was only half-aware of the world around him as he dozed while appearing outwardly alert.

There was a time, he remembered vaguely, when there were no such things as respirators, when the air you breathed was free. For twenty of his thirty-four years he had known that golden era. There were taxes, of course, but only on the food you ate, the money you earned, the entertainment you saw, et cetera, almost ad infinitum. Air, it seemed--much to the government's evident dissatisfaction--was an untaxable commodity, a luxury which even the poor could enjoy without restriction.

Then came the war. The war that caused all peoples to finally unite under one government to insure peace. Arthur Dunlop knew of the war, for he was a part of it. He fought back to preserve his life, and they gave him a medal for it, a piece of cloth and metal which indicated that he was lucky enough to survive. It was another war to make the world safe for something or other, and he still recalled with a shudder the Battle of Boston, the Siege of New York, the great topplings of great cities into greater dust.

To counteract the poisonous by-products of civilized weapons, the respirators had been developed--small watch-like mechanisms that enabled the wearers to breathe in practically any atmosphere. After the war, they had been adapted to a new use.

"What?" Arthur Dunlop said.

Helen was extending a carton marked "6-C." "Mealtime," she declared.

He took the box, another development of the Last War, and opened it. Standardization was the keynote, he remembered, for in that there is unity. Standardization of clothing, of living, of eating, of thinking.

He plopped a pill marked "steak" into his mouth, nibbled absently at the ones labeled "bread" and "potatoes and gravy," and then followed with a pill called "coffee." It might have been funny had he been able to view the scene objectively, but the time when he had been able to do that had long passed. They were the best government-made pills and tasted not a bit like their labels.

From the television set, an enthusiastic voice declared: "Ronson Rotors are the best, Try the thousand foot drop test, Be convinced it'll break your fall, Ronson Rotors are the best of all!"

Furiously, Arthur Dunlop chewed on his pill marked "apple pie."

There was a knock at the door. "Air tax," an authoritative voice called, and the door slid open to reveal an impassionate face surrounded by uniform. "Your respirators, please," the face directed in a monotone. "Monthly check."

Arthur Dunlop extended his wrist, and the man, frowning importantly, noted several numbers from the respirator dial and wrote them in a small black book; he carefully examined the part that would tell if the device had been removed.

Arthur resisted an impulse to ask the man for a refund for the Carbon Dioxide he had exhaled during the past month to see what reaction he might get. But the man, eager to get ahead, would welcome the opportunity to report someone less patriotic than he, and there would follow an investigation. Investigations were taken as a matter of course, naturally, and even investigators were being investigated with confusing regularity. But under the present circumstances, Arthur could hardly afford the risk. Entirely too much was at stake.

"You could use a new respirator," the air tax man said in the tone of a man who had said this same thing many times before.

"Yes," Arthur agreed mechanically. "What kind would you suggest?"

"What kinds do you like?" the man said testily.

Arthur named the various kinds and the merits professed by each, to show that he had been attentive to the telecasts. The man, secure in the knowledge that Arthur was loyal to the cause, left.

Arthur sighed a vague sigh that could mean almost anything and watched Helen stretch her long limbs, smooth and sensuous beneath their thin coverings. He wondered what thoughts, if any, were in her mind, but her lovely face was vacuous and non-committal as she reclined to dutifully watch the screen as a good citizen should.

The evening grew old, and with its aging came the insistence of various televised personalities that each product cavorting about the screen was undoubtedly the best possible, and anyone who didn't agree was most certainly an idiot of the most idiotic sort. Actually, since the government directed the manufacture of all commodities, it mattered little which product was bought, so long as they were bought. Finally--

"Time to go to bed," a grandfatherly individual intoned gently from the set. "Remember: to bed and to rise at a time not late, makes one healthy and wise for the Super State."

Arthur grimaced at the benign gentleman's countenance, but Helen set about pushing the buttons that would transform the room into a bedroom. Tables slid from sight, twin beds appeared, the lights dimmed.

They undressed in the dimness, without conversation, as they had these many years. It was as though they were separated by miles instead of only a few feet, each unaware of the other's presence.

"I'm going to grab a fast shower," he told her and headed for the shower stall. He heard her answering murmur, as he closed the door of the airtight cubicle. Fingers ran over the dials, and invisible rays caressed his naked body, cleansing it of impurities with swift silent radiation.

When he stepped once more into the main room, Helen was lying unmoving on her bed. The television set was blank, and an almost inaudible hypnotic hum came from it, soothing, compelling, lulling. He sat on the edge of the bed, listening in fascination to the sound. Slowly, it faded, slowly, slowly....

He caught himself starting to doze, and he sat upright on the bed straining to hear the evasive hum. He shook his head violently to clear it. He wondered how many persons were aware that the noise was actually a high-frequency voice-recording which in effect hypnotized persons into sleep, and then instilled into each one's subconsciousness a faith in the glories of the government. Yet even when you knew, it was difficult to resist.

Stealthily, he rose and dressed again in dark silence. He then made his way across the room to the shower stall, entered, closed the door securely. A manipulation of the dials, a soft pressure on a portion of one wall, and a section slid back to reveal a radio apparatus.

Arthur put the microphone to his lips, spoke swiftly into it, making contact. A furtive voice, crackled and staticky answered in code. Arthur gave his part of the ritual.

"Right," the voice said, relaxing a bit. "Everything okay?"

"Simply great," Arthur said, putting a smile into the phrase. It was good to hear George Keating's voice again. "How's everything up there?"

"Not bad. Nobody suspects anything as far as we know. Shipments are getting a bit slow, but I expect they'll be heavier before long. Ready to spring it?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "Oh, one thing though," frowning, "the underground suspects there's a WBI man in my unit."

"Anything further? Have they narrowed him down at all."

"I don't think so. I'm going to a meeting tonight; I managed to talk Julie into it. If I can, I'll contact you later."

"Right-o."

Arthur closed the circuit and sealed the wall again, turning the dials to a random location. He opened the door of the cubicle and peered cautiously into the gloom. He thought he detected a furtive movement, but it was only Helen turning on the bed.

He crossed the room, noiselessly ascended to the roof and leaped outward. Blades unfolded to churn the darkness. It was a Stallman Rotor--their commercials seemed the least offensive--and it deposited him gently beside his house; just as gently as any Ronson would have done.

Ahead of him, the stars glittered frostily in the night. He breathed the crystal air in great intakes of breath, trying not to remember it was taxed. Lines from Walter Scott leaped unaccountably to his mind: "Breathes there a man," he thought, "with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, 'This is my own, my native land.'" He felt the last word could be justly changed to "air" to fit this overtaxed era in which he lived.

The moon was out, and he stopped to stare at it. Across its surface, in letters of fire, were the words: "Buy Air Bonds, A Solid Investment." There was little practical need for the ad; pay deductions were arbitrary. Shaking his head sadly, Arthur Dunlop walked into the night.

Night beckoned, and Arthur Dunlop followed its call. He went willfully, but he could not have resisted had he wanted to. The streets were dark, lit only by the moon and the stars, and houses were dark phantoms rising in the night, their owners lulled to sleep by the omnipresent television receivers. But he tried not to think of that. He thought of the cool velvet evening which lay before him, and of the girl who waited quietly in the shadows of a deserted park.

He thought of that as he walked into the night, and he thought also of things more serious, and suddenly--

--a voice cried: "Stop!" It was a mechanical voice, tinny, without emotion. "It is the time of curfew. You are not allowed out. Your name?"

Arthur stood, petrified, and stared at a black robot face before him. He heard a click, loud in the darkness, and knew that his picture had been taken.

The sound jarred him from his immobility, and he turned and scampered into the darkness.

"Stop," the robot commanded, "Stop!" and a shaft of light darted from its forehead, piercing the darkness, shriveling grass beneath Arthur's feet. But the ray missed him, and he darted down the street, amid the pounding echoes of his flight.

After several blocks, he threw himself panting into a doorway and looked back down the street. Nothing. Silence and moonlight and darkness, and only his own labored breathing while his chest rose and fell in unaccustomed gasps.

But they had his picture! In seconds, a giant machine could find a similar picture in its files, complete with every detail of information concerning him. They might get him before the work was complete. If he could only evade them until he could turn this to advantage. He felt in his pocket for the radioactive silver disc he knew was there.

Down the street, a shadow moved, and he held his breath. In a shaft of moonlight, black metal glinted darkly. With a muffled cry he slipped from the doorway and flew down the street, trying to still the noise he made. Behind him, no sounds came to indicate pursuit.

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