Thinking led to individualism, and the latter to conflict of opinions, eventually to become conflict of a far more deadly sort. The recent past was an unerasable record of promiscuous thinking; it had brought too many problems, social and economic—it was wasteful, slipshod and inefficient. So it became a matter of unalterable policy to train each individual rigidly in that station in life to which he was best fitted, where he or she could function with maximum efficiency toward achievement. It became essential to apply control "one," which instilled into the mental patterns a dreadful guilt of waste—whether of energy, credits or time, much as the ancient Puritans lived in the fear of their consciences and could never be comfortable or enjoy frivolous moments or leisure. Control "six" became an obsession to achieve, subtly replacing the emotional complex of what in an earlier day was called "ambition," until nothing, literally nothing could stand before that one, all-important goal. And finally, control "fifteen" became an absolute need for guidance, a pattern that subtly replaced the instinct for security of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, so that all problems, all crises were solved by the Council. An attempt to make individual solutions, resulted in an awful sense of "aloneness," of absolute insecurity that could drive a civican or ruralian to the verge of a psychosis. There were other controls, some major and some minor, but these three, one, six and fifteen, were the three imperatives. Mark Lynn was impervious to them—he had to be to belong to the Internationals.
With the sealed cylinder in an inner pocket of his tunic, that boasted a golden sun embroidered on the chest, Mark left the building and made his way through the milling crowds in the streets. They were all hurrying to some individual task—office workers in the black gowns of their calling; artisans with wide, tooled belts. The violet-eyed Martian proctors who acted as guards, and the tiny, slender Venusians, with their vari-colored wings and melodious voices. Scientists of the various orders were hurrying to the transportation belts, while technicians in their bright blue tunics went in and out of different buildings. There was no confusion, no disorder, despite the evident haste.
Shops were closed, deserted or wrecked by earthquakes. Many buildings were in partial ruins, others had huge cracks along the sides. Yet, from the public visi-screens posted along the street came glimpses of beautiful scenes and soft, seductive music. A light powdery snow was falling, and the wind danced a sara-band unchecked.
"Weather control stations must have failed," Mark said inwardly, and breathed deeply, gratefully, the keen, icy freshness of the wind.
An old woman, a ruralian carrying a huge bundle, spied him and eagerly grasped his arm. "Greetings, International! Pray give an old woman information! I've farmed my allotment and achieved ten years ahead of my plan, and now they tell me I must move to Venus! I don't mind the moving—though I mistrust those winged creatures—but I'm old and very tired. Does my moving mean I'll have another allotment to achieve? Must I clear Venusian land? Tell me International, if I'm assigned to a freighter, will the gravs be likely to shorten what remains of my life-span?"
Mark laughed at the loud avalanche of questions. "Peace, Ruralian," he managed through his laughter. "I doubt if you'll be required to achieve another allotment. Didn't the government grant you sufficient credits for a new start?"
The ruralian woman pulled out a package of rank, Venusian cigarets and contentedly puffed on one after lighting it. "Yes, when the earth-temblors ruined my land and a mouth of fire finished it, a proctor came from the Council and gave me enough credits to last a body a life-time, then told me to make my way to transportation. But I can't bring myself to spend those credits, International—its wasteful.... I'd rather achieve another allotment. Why, I haven't bought a thing for fifty years that I could grow or make myself!
"I've been some time getting here from the Arizona sector, for the shakes disrupted the conveyor roads, and I lost a lot of things when another mouth of fire pushed up where the road was and blew my cart to the four winds—It's a miracle I'm here at all! But about the freighter, will the gravs...."
"Ask for the sleep-freeze ... it will be given you, in any event. If anything, it'll lengthen your span, and the journey will seem like an overnight trip to you. If you need directing, a proctor will assist you. Greetings Ruralian!" Mark tried to make his tones as kindly as he possibly could, but realizing the woman was eager to make conversation, he ended the incident—he was still on duty.