An Official Visitor
Now that I had swallowed the Oath and become a full-fledged citizen, my life took a sharp turn—though whether for the better, I could hardly say. As a free man, I was permitted to wander unescorted through many of the streets and side-galleries; yet it seemed to me that I had really less freedom than when confined in the Professor's home. I was now officially on the Government books, being known as Citizen No. 44,667,023 XZ, Third Class; I had had my photograph taken and filed with the War Department, my physical measurements recorded and filed with the Police Department, and my toe-prints registered and filed with both the War and the Police Departments. Worst of all, I was now to receive a visit from a sub-agent of the Ministry of Public Unemployment.
This event occurred on the fifth day—or the fifth "wake"—after I had swallowed the Oath. I well remember the occasion; I had been practicing writing the native language, under the tutorage of Loa; and having noticed a light of warning fondness in her salmon eyes, I was desiring some tactful way of escape ... when I was startled by the entrance of Moa, who informed me that a visitor wished to see me.
A visitor to see me! Who knew me well enough to call upon me down in this Nether World? For one mad, hopeful instant, the thought came to me that perhaps it was Clay! Perhaps, after all, he had survived and discovered my hiding-place!
But no! In the next room, a weakened little chalk-face with the features of a fox arose to receive me. "Citizen Number 44,667,023 XZ, Third Class?" he inquired.
"I believe that is my name," said I, although not quite certain yet whether I were an "XZ" or an "XY."
"I have been detailed to investigate your case," he declared, in such a businesslike manner that I had a momentary tremor, imagining him to be a detective. "I do not know why the Government has overlooked you so long; I understand, sir, that you have been illegally living in a state of unemployment."
"Illegally—living in a state of unemployment?" I gasped.
"So I am told!" he continued, with unsmiling severity. "Do you not realize, sir, that unemployment is a crime? That is to say, in all except First Class citizens, who are paid a salary by the State for being unemployed."
Fearing that I was about to be punished, I remained silent and anxiously regarded my visitor.
"However, we do not wish to be severe with you," he conceded, still scowling. "This is, after all, your first dereliction, and I have been instructed to let you off with a reprimand. But we must immediately end your unemployment."
"Very well," I assented, vastly relieved.
"The question is, what valuable labor can you perform?" asked the chalk-face, taking a chart out of his pocket and withdrawing across the room so as to examine it through an instrument that looked like a pair of opera glasses. "Fortunately, owing to the unusual turnover of the present war, an exceptional number of positions are vacant just now."
"Good! What are they?"
My visitor drew up his lean, white face into a puzzled frown, and answered in a drawl.
"Well, let's see. There are so many, it's hard to know where to begin. Now here's one that might do. In the thought-inoculation department of the army."
"Thought-inoculation?"
"Yes, you see it's necessary to be sure that no private in the army should ever have a thought; otherwise, how could we maintain discipline? We have found it isn't safe to rely on laws only, so we have invented an anti-thought serum, which acts on the nervous system so as to paralyze the thought-centers of the brain. The results are excellent; the recruit has no power left except to obey orders—which makes him a perfect soldier."
"A very good idea," I acknowledged, wishing I might have the formula of this wonderful serum to bring home for use in our own armies.
"A derivative of the same drug, known as 'the Mu' is fed by big business firms to employees. It is taken internally, and the results are said to be excellent.... However, a job in this department is not for you!" concluded the agent, sadly. "You're a barbarian, and what do barbarians know of thought-prevention?"
"More than you think!" I snapped, defensively.
"Now here's another good job," he went on, still gazing at the chart by means of the opera glasses. "We're in need of spies. The recent turnover in that department—"
"No, thanks!" I decided. "I don't care to be a spy—"
"But think of the honor! No profession is more esteemed! If you survive, you'll be given a high position in the diplomatic corps; and if, on the other hand, you are turned—"
"That's just it! I'm satisfied not to be turned over!" I asserted, remembering the prison I had occupied just after my arrival, and the execution of my cell-mates beneath the violet ray.
"It's a glorious death—I mean to say, a glorious turnover!" argued my visitor. And then, with a disappointed expression, "However, if you're not out for honors, I suppose we can find you some humbler job. What about a position in the Mulflar Works?"
"But is that safe?"
"Safe?" The Unemployment Agent glared at me angrily. "Who cares if it is safe? Of course it isn't! You may be blown to shreds and splinters any wake! But what of that? Is anything safe in modern life? It's all a matter of the degree of risk! And, besides, the salary is high."
"I'm not greedy for a high salary," I remarked.
"Oh, well, if that's the way you feel, of course we can fix you up!" returned the chalk-face, contemptuously. "There's never much demand for low-paying jobs."
Again he stared at the chart, and, after a moment of indecision, suggested, "Let's see now—we might make you valet to a First Class Citizen. The wages are not very good, but the work is easy. All you would have to do would be to dust off your master's eye-tubes, or hold his megaphone to his mouth when he speaks, or adjust his breathing tubes when they get out of order, or merely stand in his reception hall and look stiff and official when he receives visitors. And whenever he kicks you or cuffs you or calls you names, you would have to bow respectfully, and say 'Thank you, sir!' What do you say?"
"Haven't you anything else?" I asked, in desperation.
The agent scowled again. "You're a hard man to suit!" he declared. "I really don't know what else to offer you. If you weren't a barbarian, we might place you in the Department of Public Unenlightenment—vulgarly known as the Censorship Bureau—whose business it is to keep the public from knowing too much. But no—that won't do at all! Third Class citizens are not eligible!"
Once more he paused, his long black-draped fingers tapping at his knees; and for a moment I feared that no further suggestions would be forthcoming.
But he was a resourceful man; at last, with a shout of triumph, he exclaimed, "Ah!—now I have it! Just the thing! The very thing!"
"The very what?" I asked, hoping he would have a better suggestion this time.
"The very job for you!" he ejaculated, slapping his knee in delight. "I congratulate you, young man! You're a lucky individual! A very lucky individual!"
"How so?" I asked doubtfully.
"Very lucky, I assure you!" he repeated. "We need more office help for the Ventilation Company. You see, too many of their employees have volunteered for the war—and have been turned over. So they have a job just waiting for you in the air-supply division. You may begin tomorrow."
"But what is the Ventilation Company? And what's the air-supply division?" I demanded, none too certain that I wished to accept.
"Take my word, it's just the thing for you! No ability required! No thought necessary! Merely do what you are told! And get paid regularly every five wakes!"
"But what's the job like?"
"You'll find out after you're on it! Time enough to worry then!"
Further discussion followed; but as the agent had no job which he recommended so highly as the ventilating one, I ended by reluctantly accepting.
Immediately upon securing my assent, the visitor let out a whoop of joy; then, drawing forth a printed sheet and a pencil, he flung them at me, and directed, "There! Sign on the dotted line!"
Hesitantly I did as directed, and the agent immediately snatched up the paper, folded it into an inner pocket, left me instructions where and when to report to work, bowed, and gingerly left.
Not until later did I learn that, as a commission for securing me the work, I had signed over to him all my wages for the first fifty-two "wakes!"