Strike! Strike! Strike!
The "wakes" went by and gathered into months, and the months lengthened into a year, and still I performed my duties as Ventilation Inspector, and could discover no way of escape to the Overworld, and no prospect of a change in the ordered monotony of my existence. Was I to pass my whole life thus, and to end my days among the labyrinths of Wu?
So I often asked, while wondering if it would not be wise to attempt some new dash for liberty—even though the end might be arrest and the violet ray! Then all at once, when I was just finishing my first year as Inspector, my life underwent an extraordinary change.
The occasion was one of those periodic strikes which menace the economic security of Wu and enable the people to enjoy the perils and horrors of warfare even when war has not been officially declared. On this particular occasion, the strike was especially dangerous; for those guardians of the public health, the Ventilation employees, were determined to leave work. Not, indeed, had all the Ventilation employees so resolved, but in some sections they were unanimous in their revolt, and the uprising had become so serious that Dictator Thuno Flâtum was said to have interrupted a fishing expedition for nearly an hour while he debated the situation with high officials.
Personally, I looked upon developments with gravest misgivings, for the Ventilation Brotherhood, composed of fifty thousand workers, had issued the following ultimatum:
"To the Directors of the Ventilation Company of Wu, Unlimited, we pay our respects, and submit that:
"Within three wakes, they must grant all our demands, or we will turn off the country's air-supply.
"Not a ventilation wheel will turn, not a breath of fresh air will blow until our terms are complied with.
"If thousands of citizens, including many First Class men and women, should be suffocated as a result, we shall profoundly regret their fate, but sentimental considerations, naturally, cannot deter us."
The demands of the strikers—who were mostly Third Class citizens, of the kind that did a maximum of work for a minimum of returns—were as follows:
1. That wages be high enough to permit the men to eat every other "wake."
2. That hours be short enough to permit them to sleep every other night.
3. That the Company supply free air to the homes of all its employees.
These demands—which were variously branded by officials of the Company as "Inordinate," "Preposterous," and "Impossible"—were condemned in no uncertain terms by all First Class citizens, who upbraided the unpatriotic attitude of the strikers and pointed out that, should their terms be met, the Ventilation Company could not guarantee to pay its stockholders more than eleven per cent a year.
"The arrogance of the people knows no limits!" stated one high dignitary, who was believed to enjoy the confidence of no less a personage than Thuno Flâtum himself. "If we were to grant these exactions, the next thing they would ask would be separate houses for each family, or Grade A air, or reduction of taxes on the food, clothing, and water of the Third Class! Doubtless they would expect the First Class, who are legally tax-exempt, to meet these bills instead! No! Obviously such insubordination must be checked before it poisons the entire life of society!"
This sentiment being echoed by First Class citizens everywhere, a battle to the finish was promised. "We will smother rather than submit!" rang out the defiance of the rulers.... "Then we will all smother together!" thundered the retort of the strikers. And already, two "wakes" before the expiration of the ultimatum, serious complications were reported; dozens of strikers, going quietly about their way bearing banners, "We demand a breathing wage!" had been shot in the back by electric bolts launched by the police, in return for what the Wakely Screamer denounced as "their treasonous and seditious interference with business."
If this were but the beginning, a civil war seemed in prospect!
Now, I personally had little interest in the strike, for my work as Ventilation Inspector was fairly easy, my wages were fairly good, and I could see no advantage in facing suffocation merely in order to improve laboring conditions. Besides, I had had the temerity to consult a historical reference work, and knew that ventilation strikes had been occurring at intervals of about thirty years for centuries, and that in every case hundreds of thousands of persons—mostly invalids, women and children, in no wise connected with the strike—had been turned over as a result of interference with the air-supply; while the strikers, if they had been permitted to return to work at all after the settlement, had done so on worse conditions than before.
For this reason, I steadily refused to join the protesting group.
As the time approached for the strikers to put their ultimatum into effect, I could see how excited the people were growing. Business had virtually come to a standstill; along avenues once crowded with dashing vehicles, the "scootscoots" had almost ceased to run; in every side-gallery one could see little knots of chalk-faces anxiously talking, their drawn features and worried eyes bearing testimony to the concern they felt. "And so you think they will really strike?" one would ask.... "Undoubtedly!" another would reply. "I stored up containers of oxygen months ago, for an emergency!"... "Oh, what will I do about the baby's air!" a third would sigh. "I'm sure there'll be a terrible turnover if this keeps up!"... "Never fear!" would be the response. "What's the army for? The government has saved it for just this occasion!"
Meanwhile, the Screamer reported that Dictator Thuno Flâtum was still enjoying his fishing expedition. He had just caught a seven-ounce minnow, it was said, which he had been able to draw out of a subterranean lake by means of a new automatic fishing reel.
At the beginning of that wake on which the ultimatum expired, I reported for work as usual to the Ventilation Office. But, to my surprise, the place was almost deserted; the dozens of regular employees were conspicuously absent; only a worn old drudge of a janitress, languidly mopping the floor, greeted me upon my arrival.
She seemed, indeed, astonished to see me. "Say!—but you are brave, young man!" she gasped. "Don't you value your life?"
"Don't I value my life?" I echoed.
"Bless me, it won't be worth much if those strikers find you!" she exclaimed, looking up from her pail of sops. "They wouldn't do anything to me, for I'm only a useless old woman. But you, sir—they'll wipe the floor with you for not joining the strike!"
"Oh, have no worry; I'm able to defend myself!"
She stared at me as if wondering whether I were a prodigy or a madman.
"Do you think so?" she shot out. "Well, then you ought to see what they did to my neighbor, young Mr. Ty Tan. He was as big and brawny a young man as you ever saw—took all the prizes in boxing and wrestling. Well, he wouldn't join the water workers when they went out year before last, and turned off our drinking supply. Poor fellow! I've always felt so sorry for him!"
"What did they do to him?"
"Poor fellow!" she reiterated. "Poor fellow! It was so foolish of him, so foolish! When Mr. Ty Tan wouldn't strike—"
Abruptly she halted. I saw her staring toward the door, an expression of surprise and fear in her eyes, while she shrank back as if from some approaching menace.
Wheeling about, I saw half a dozen ugly-looking men just entering. On their breasts were prominent banners, reading: "Ventilation Strike. Sub-committee No. 116."
With a threatening expression, the newcomers drew near. "We were just looking around, to see that no one was working!" snarled the leader, as he glared in my direction. "You know, brother, it isn't good for the health to be working nowadays."
Steadily I eyed the men, and deliberately drew a step nearer. "Is that a threat, or a challenge?" I demanded.
"Have it as you will!" he growled. "I give you a fair chance, brother, if you want to walk out of here alive—"
Already I had resolved on my course. Striding forward before the man could finish his sentence, I put my full one hundred and seventy pounds into an uppercut that caught him squarely on the point of the chin, and sent him reeling to the floor.
Not being able to see clearly close at hand, he had been unable to ward off the blow!
Even as he fell, I followed up my advantage. Being now within arm's reach of his companions, I began to rain blow upon blow, which they also, because of their defective vision for things close at hand, were unable to guard against. In less time than it takes to recount, three of the men had followed their leader to the floor; while the remaining two, not knowing what sort of a fighting tornado they had encountered, had turned and taken to their heels.
With eyes of admiration and wonder, the scrubwoman stared at me as I returned from the encounter. "If only Ty Tan could have fought like that!" she sighed. "Poor Ty! He mightn't have ended as he did!" And then, warningly, "Still, sir, I would advise you to look out. They won't let it go at that. They'll see that you're turned over, if they have to bring out a whole striking brigade."
"Let them do their worst!" I snorted. And I sat down, crossed my legs, and complacently awaited developments. I could foresee that I was to have a busy day.