“No, these are all Grade 1 defectives,” he answered, regarding me with amusement. “Defectives such as us. We number forty-five per cent of the population and form the average type. They are free to choose within limits. The Council prepares periodically lists of young men and young women in whom the deficiencies are recessive, and those on one side of the list may mate with any of those upon the other side. Monogamy is, however, frowned upon. I suppose you, in your country, never heard of this plan?”
“Yes, it used to be called the totem, or group marriage, and was confined to the most degraded savages on earth, the Aborigines of Australia,” I answered. But the little man, who had evidently not heard of Australia, only looked at me blankly. A rush of people toward the next hall carried us apart, and, not loath to lose my companion, I followed the crowd, to find myself in the immense central auditorium, within which orators were addressing the people from various platforms.
Upon that nearest me a lecturer was holding forth with the enthusiasm of some Dominican of old.
“Produce! Produce!” he yelled, with wild gesticulations. “Out with the unproductive who cannot create a hektone and a quarter monthly! Out with the moron! Out with the defective! Out with the unadaptable! Out with the weak! Out with him who denies the consubstantiality of Force and Matter! No compromise! Sterilize, sterilize, as Doctor Sanson demands of you! There are defectives in the shops today, spreading the moron doctrines of Christianity. There are asymmetries and variations from the Sanson norm, cunningly concealed, legacies of malformations from degenerate ancestors, impure germ-plasm that menaces the future of the human race. Let us support Sanson, citizens! Go through the city with sickle and pruning-hook for the perfect race of the future, in the name of democracy! Praise the great Boss!”
“Hurrah!” shrieked the mob enthusiastically.
“Will you not go up and see the Temple goddess?” whispered a voice in my ear.
I started, but I could not discern the speaker. I looked up. On either side of the auditorium a high staircase of gleaming marble led to a gallery which surrounded it. Doors were set in the wall of this in many places, and above were more stairs and more galleries, tier above tier. At the head of each stairway one of the guards was posted. He stood there like a statue, picturesque in his blue uniform, which made a splotch of color against the white marble wall.
“Go up and ask no questions,” whispered somebody on my other side; and again I turned quickly, but none of those near me seemed to have spoken.
I went up the stairway, passing the guard, who did not stop or question me. As I stopped in the gallery, high above the auditorium, a door opened, and there came out a man of extreme age, dressed in white, with a gold ant badge on either shoulder. He propped himself upon a staff, and stood blinking and leering at me, and wagging his head like a grotesque idol.
“A stranger!” he exclaimed. “So you have come to see the goddess of the Ant Temple! Would you like to stand upon the altar platform and see her face to face? It only costs one hektone, but it is customary to offer a gratuity to the assistant priest.”