Again the whistle shrieked, and the room filled with coughs, groans and sighs, for it was forbidden to talk. Only when one of the many rules had been broken and a card bearing the trainee's number was found in the box outside the door did some American get a chance to speak. He would rush instantly to the small administration building near the wall's only exit and report to the squat, gray-uniformed Conqueror known as Punitive—the only Conqueror the trainees had ever seen. After an explanation of the offense in too-precise English, the trainee was told to sit on the stool facing the light tube. "I obey," he would croak. In silence broken only by the hum of electric generators in the basement, the beam of piercing white light would sear his eyes. Afterwards, the assurance about the disappearing effects of the beam; then back to the streets.
With only Punitive representing them, the Conquerors weeded out Americans who would not or could not obey. The vaguest suggestion of communication between trainees was picked up by the detector bulbs—the see-and-hear-all devices which hung much as oversized light bulbs from the ceiling of every room, and stood like dead street lamps every fifty feet or so along the pavements.
George lay a second longer, then twisted his tall, slim body erect and sprang to his feet. As he slipped into the thick stockings, high-topped shoes, and one-piece cover-alls with serial number stitched in large red numerals across chest and back, he began sounding deep in his throat. This was so slight a touch of the vocal cords that no detector bulb or other trainee could hear it. But it was something more than thinking; it was listening to a voice repeating all the things that had mattered before the Conquerors' surprise attack atomized New York City. It was his fight against non-entity.
"George Lowery," he said, "thirty-two, top salesman at Brady's Men's Shop, resident of Babylon, Long Island, owner of 12 North Rector Drive, husband of Adele Lowery, and today you may see her." But the last phrase stuck in his throat and he had to repeat it several times. Even so, he couldn't convince himself that the most important part of his ritual was true—that perhaps he would see his wife as she walked the streets.
Two days ago he had turned the breakfast table to stone by asking his neighbor to pass the water. It was nothing more than a mistake—a stupid thinking aloud. But yesterday the card had been in the door-box. He had visited apartment 1-A in the Administration Building and, for the second time, the thin beam of light had seared his eyes. Now he was no longer sure he would be able to recognize his own wife.
"George Lowery," he sounded, fighting off the panic. "George Lowery," and he turned and moved through the now-empty rooms.
He was last in line outside the bathroom and waited dully for his turn. The men in front of him were nothing but tall, short or in-between nondescripts. The old group, of which he was the last, had been different. They had looked at each other with meaning, with hope. After six months passed, and realization came that no opposition to the Conquerors was in sight, they went out in one mad day of talk. He had watched silently, refusing to respond to the suicidal good morning's, pardon me's, and salty discussions of Conqueror Punitive's parentage.
Not that life in the project meant anything to him. It was just that he had to see Adele again—to assure himself that she still remembered their life together. If her love had been stamped out, then the Conquerors were right in their men-live-by-bread-alone theory, and he was only one of a few remaining misfits—a breed as expendable in the battle for survival as the great, pre-historic lizards had been.
He hadn't been in the bathroom more than five minutes when the third whistle sounded. With his beard still wet he rushed out of the apartment, pausing only to check the empty door-box, then ran down two flights of stairs to the street. It was windy for a morning in June and his face felt cold where the damp hair covered it. The Conquerors allowed nothing that could be used as a weapon to fall into American hands, but even after eight months he was still not used to his light brown beard and long shaggy hair.
Hurrying through the street, following the one-way arrows which kept the trainees moving in the same direction, around and around the project, he felt the panic well up again. He made a wide detour of the excavation area which lay in the center of a rough square formed by the four apartment houses and the Administration Building. This forbidden area had been the cause of his first visit to Conqueror Punitive. Some two months ago, right after the last shipment of fresh trainees arrived, he had seen a group of women obviously new to the project, rigid in their terror of this silent hell, walking right in the direction of the excavation. Without thinking, he had shouted a warning which stopped them from committing an offense.