That got me no place. It seemed I was already talking to their highest government councils. All of my suggestions were considered, debated, voted on—and rejected.
They were democratic, they said. They counted my vote in favor; but that was just one vote. Rather a small minority.
As I suppose I should have figured, my thoughts were coming through over a period that was, to them, equal to weeks. They recorded them, accelerated them, broadcast them all around, held elections and recorded replies to be played back to me at my own slow tempo by the time I had a new thought ready. No, they wouldn't take time to let me count the votes. And there is where you might say I lost my self control.
"Damn it!" I said. Or shouted. "I won't have it! I won't put up with it. I'll—uh—I'll get us all dead drunk. I'll take dope! I'll go out and get a shot of penicillin and—"
I didn't do a damned thing. I couldn't.
Their control of my actions was just as complete as they wanted to make it. While they didn't exercise it all the time, they made the rules. According to them, they could have controlled my thoughts too if they had wanted to. They didn't because they felt that wouldn't be democratic. Actually, I suppose they were pretty fair and reasonable—from their point of view. Certainly it could have been a lot worse.
III
I wasn't as bad off as old Faust and his deal with the devil. My soul was still my own. But my body was community property—and I couldn't, by God, so much as bite my own tongue without feeling like a bloody murderer—and being made to suffer for it, too.
Perhaps you don't think biting your tongue is any great privilege to have to give up. Maybe not. But, no matter how you figure, you've got to admit the situation was—well—confining.
And it lasted for over nine years.