Commune 2000 AD, page 3
Brian Fitz came in with the steaming cups of coffee, served first the academician and then his guest.
Englebrecht was saying, “Of course, fine. Very well. That is exactly what we want. Your task will be to seek out these various communes and find out all there is to find out about them. Acquire your material and then collate it. You might do several papers as you go along. Eventually, you will be able to put it all together and then write your dissertation, say some two hundred pages, comparing the ancient communes with those of the present. My boy, I absolutely guarantee you’ll get your degree.”
A tiny red light made itself evident on the academician’s desk and he frowned.
“Confound it, is a man not even safe from interruption in his own escape sanctum? See who that is, Brian.”
The secretary bustled out.
Ted Swain was frowning faintly at the patterns of sunlight on the floor. Finally he said, “Just what sort of material did you have in mind?”
His host rubbed plump hands together in satisfaction. “Everything, my boy. Find out everything; what motivates them, what their goals are. Dig into their economics “
“Economics? What economics? They’re practically all on Universal Guaranteed Income, just like the rest of us. One of the reasons they formed into these communes is that they weren’t given jobs on muster day and banded together, retreating into their own hobbies or pleasures.”
Brian Fitz reentered the room, followed by another man. He said, “Academician Dollar is calling, sir.”
Franz Englebrecht came to his feet, teaming, his hand outstretched. “Ah, George. A pleasure to see you.”
Ted Swain stood too. He had never met the man before but had seen him on TV broadcasts on occasion. George O. Dollar was this region’s head of the National Data Banks, a position of no small importance. With the redivision of the former fifty states into more reasonable, easier-to-administer regions, a director of a regional section of the National Data Banks was an impressive rank.
The newcomer was cut from the same mold as was Englebrecht. That is, he was pushing sixty, was overweight in an era when few persons allowed themselves to be, was conservatively dressed and customarily wore an expression that in an earlier day would have been called that of a politician.
Dollar reached over the desk and shook Franz Englebrecht’s hand. “We must get together more often. I was in the neighborhood and couldn’t resist dropping by.” He looked questioningly at Ted Swain. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all, not at all, George. Meet Doctor Theodore Swain, one of the candidates under my wing for the academician degree.”
George Dollar shook Swain’s hand and he and Ted mumbled through the usual amenities while Fitz brought up a chair for the newcomer.
Dollar laughed pleasantly. “An academician, eh? Well, I’ll tell you, with the new teaching methods so many degrees are being taken that I wouldn’t be surprised if, in the near future, the Education Guild will come up with a higher one, still more difficult to achieve.” He laughed again, in deprecation. “Then we’d have Bachelor’s degree, Master’s, Doctor’s, Academician’s …” He looked over at his friend. “What could we call the next one, Franz?”
“Zoroaster forbid,” Englebrecht said jovially, reseating himself. “It was all I could do to make academician. It wasn’t as easy as it is today, when we were struggling along, was it, George?”
Ted Swain said, “It’s not as easy as all that today, either.”
The data-banks head looked at him. “What’s the subject of your dissertation, Doctor Swain?”
Ted Swain said unhappily, “Contrasts between primitive and modern communes.”
“Fascinating. I’m anxious to see it when you publish.”
“Very kind of you,” Ted muttered.
“No, I mean it. It will be invaluable to me. I’m anxious to get such a work into the data banks.”
Ted looked at him. “You mean it’s a good idea?”
“Certainly it is from my viewpoint. Our coverage of the commune phenomenon is a farce. Any additional data we can get will be most welcome. And perhaps it will lead to others delving into them. Just what aspects of the commune culture were you going to investigate?”
Ted shifted slightly in his chair. “That was just what we were discussing when you entered, sir.”
Englebrecht looked at the newcomer. “Any suggestions, George?”
The other grimaced thoughtfully. “Why, yes. And if Doctor Swain will contact me later, I’ll have additional ones. I’ll put some of my boys on it.” He turned to Ted, who was now feeling considerably better about the whole thing. “The communes differ radically, you undoubtedly know. It is difficult to find any two that are basically the same. Each has a different theme …” was that word again. “Each, uh, goes to hell in its own way. And almost all of them cooperate very poorly with the National Data Banks, and statistics in general. Most seem in sullen revolt against the data banks.”
He made a gesture with both hands, as though in despair. “Our civilization is based on data banks and the computers. How can we serve these people if they don’t keep us informed?”
He pursed his lips in thought and cocked his head slightly. “Almost any data on the make-up of these communes is of value to us; their raison d’être, their goals, their composition, so far as age groups, sexes, political beliefs and …”
“Political beliefs?” Ted said.
“Yes, certainly. An increasing number of the communards don’t participate in even the civil elections. Most aren’t eligible to participate in the guild elections, because they hold no jobs, but they don’t bother to vote in the civil elections, either. To put it bluntly, they’re anarchists.”
Ted Swain looked at the data-banks man. “Under our system, no person is obligated to vote. Nor, for that matter, to submit statistics on himself to his data-bank dossier.”
“That is true, though I’m not sure that there shouldn’t be such requirements. For the individual’s own good, understand? For instance, your medical record. Theoretically, from the time of your birth—even before, since we have the records of your parents and often your grandparents—every report on your health, every time you consult a doctor, is filed away. Suppose you are a resident of this Eastern area of our country but take a trip out to the West Coast and have an accident. Within moments, the doctor who treats you can have your complete medical record.”
“Admittedly,” Ted nodded. “But on the other hand, any National Security officer who busts you also has a complete record of your criminal career.”
Englebrecht laughed in deprecation. “Why not? Who in the world has a criminal record these days?”
“Some of those who live in the more far-out communes,” Dollar replied wryly. “Crime might be at a minimum, nowadays, since we’ve dispensed with money, but there is still some, usually psychopathic. The data banks should have records, even of criminals, for the sake of the criminal. How can he be treated if we don’t know what’s wrong with him?”
Dollar was pursing his lips. He said, “It occurs to me, Doctor Swain, that you are in an ideal position to make your investigation. You’ll be far more efficient than representatives from the data banks. They won’t suspect you. You can pretend that you wish to join them. You’re in the most favorable age group, have no present job position, are single—in short, an ideal recruit for any of a hundred or more of these communes.”
Englebrecht beamed. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Exactly what I had in mind.”
They discussed it further, both of the older men making suggestions on just what Ted should seek out in his research. Both demanded that he keep in touch with them, and allow them to peruse his early papers. Both thought that they would have additional suggestions when they had mulled it over a bit.
When Ted left, the other visitor stayed on, obviously to chat about old times. Two sixty-year-old cronies, reliving their youths.
In the elevator, returning to the motor pool in the basements of the administration building, Ted worried it over. He had the damnedest feeling that, in spite of the manner in which the conversation had gone, Dollar had already known about his proposed dissertation before he had entered. That his dropping in and inadvertently meeting Ted was a put-up matter, rehearsed beforehand.
For one thing, how had George Dollar known that Ted Swain was both without employment and single? No one had mentioned those facts, though Englebrecht knew of them.
The thing was that it didn’t make sense. What possible reason could the two have to snowball him into researching the communes?
Chapter Four
When he arrived back at his home in the community of West Hurley, it was to receive a slap in the face.
Ted Swain was a bachelor. He had never been married. As it is sometimes with bachelors, he kept his establishment spotless. Everything had its place, everything was immaculate. It was a source of amazement to his feminine visitors, who usually expected unmade beds, dirty glasses and dishes, unswept floors and the rest. But not Ted Swain’s.
Thus it was that when he entered he knew almost immediately that the place had been ransacked. The job had been neatly done, and obviously whoever had gone through the house had made an effort to disguise the fact. But it couldn’t be hidden from Ted Swain. A writing stylo, which he invariably kept on the right side of his desk, was on the left. A file of his notes was not in exactly the same order as he had left it. There were other discrepancies.
Nothing seemed to be missing, nothing at all. But what could have been missing? He had nothing worth stealing. Petty crime and burglary were all but unknown in this age. Why steal when your Universal Guaranteed Income provided you with all you needed?
Mystified, he dialed the National Data Banks and requested a report on who had been recorded on his door identity screen that day. The computers automatically filed such information. It came in handy if you wanted to check on visitors who might have called while you were away from home.
He could only stare when the NDB reported that his identity screen had not recorded anyone.
He wandered around the house, his face twisted in disbelief. The intruder couldn’t possibly have come in through the windows; they automatically locked when he left the house, unless he set them otherwise. Their glass was unbreakable, or nearly so, so it made no difference. And they weren’t broken. The only entry was through the front door, or through the back, which led onto his Japanese-style rock garden. The back door, too, had been locked, and it also had an identity screen.
It was simply impossible. He knew the house had been searched, but by whom, and to what end, simply was unanswerable. He was a university scholar; he had no secrets, nothing of value beyond a few family keepsakes, meaningless to anyone else.
He gave up.
The stimmy he had taken that morning for studying had worn off, but he didn’t take another. It was pushing lunch time.
However, he couldn’t resist a quick initial approach to his subject. The enthusiasm of both of the older men had resolved some of his original misgivings. If the local head of the data banks thought a dissertation on the communes was a natural, who was Ted Swain to say him nay? He sat down at his library-booster screen.
He had difficulty locating the subject. Well, that wasn’t quite the way to put it. In actuality, there was so precious little to locate that he couldn’t believe it.
The National Data Banks supposedly contained all information available. The whole thing had begun back in the late 1960s when New Haven consolidated the city’s files on individuals into a single data pool open to all town agencies. And Santa Clara County, in California, put all county residents into a computer bank, listing age, address, birth record, driver’s license, voting and jury status, property holdings, occupation, health, welfare and police records.
The Federal Government hadn’t been far behind them. In 1968 the Internal Revenue Service began the utilization of computers to collect income tax and there was a good deal more information on income-tax forms than pertained to income alone. Adding social-security information to these data obviously made sense, as well as material from the Bureau of Labor Statistics and the U.S. Civil Service Commission, which had already held dossiers on nearly everyone who had ever applied for Federal employment since 1939. Then the Census Bureau information was added and the Defense Department’s military records, and finally the FBI files. Once the FBI records went into the data banks, they were soon followed by those of the house un-American Activities Committee and by the CIA. Some of the material was, of course, restricted, and available only to the proper officials.
Thus far, all these records had been Federal, but the addition of the FBI and other police files made so much sense that the local police of every state, city and town cooperated and there soon came to be a national criminal record of practically everyone in the country, even though an individual’s record might consist of no more than a traffic violation.
But that had just been the beginning. Medical information was soon added. At the same time another element was utilizing the computer data banks—the universities, the libraries, the newspapers and such depositories of human knowledge. Early in the game they began cooperation in storing information. Soon there was a gigantic data bank of books, encyclopedias, newspaper morgues; everything from Einstein’s works to Escoffier’s Cook Book. The big step had been taken when it was decided to include the Library of Congress and, a few years later, through a special exchange arrangement Her Majesty’s Government, the British Museum Library.
Ultimately, this educational material was combined with the Federal Government’s information on individual citizens and all was placed in the National Data Banks. The thing had really begun in earnest. Every newspaper, every magazine, every book and pamphlet published in the world, in every written language, was translated by computer and placed in the files, in both its original and translated forms.
Neck and neck with these developments were those in the field of banking and credit, the trend to the cashless-checkless society and the universal credit account. The computer, plus the portable pocket TV phone, made possible a national credit system eliminating money, in the old sense of the word. A person’s income was put to his account. By placing his pocket transceiver on the payment screen in any store, restaurant, public transportation vehicle, or wherever, he was debited to whatever extent required.
Yes. Everything, no matter how trivial, was in the data banks. Why not? There was infinite room. The early punch cards had been replaced by magnetic tapes, and they in turn by much-improved methods of storing the information flooding into the computer banks. The Encyclopedia Britannica could be compressed into an area no larger than a fifty-cent piece. So why not store it all, all accumulated information?
But the thing which presently confronted Ted Swain was that there was precious little, astonishingly little, on the modern commune culture, if that was what you could call it.
He imagined that his final work should include at least one chapter on the history of the commune, to trace it to its earliest origins. The conception could be found as far back as Plato’s Republic, More’s Utopia. But that wasn’t quite it. They were both fictional.
Nevertheless, he thought, scowling into his screen as he dialed over and over again, trying to trace out what small information was available, there were actual equivalents of the modern commune in the cooperative movements of the 19th Century, most of them based on early Utopian socialism.
Yes, he could find all the information he needed for a chapter or so on the preliminaries to the modern commune movement. And he would have no trouble with the primitive communes. He was so up on that subject that he would hardly have to research it at all.
But the modern! There was practically nothing at all. No wonder Dollar had been keen for him to go ahead.
Oh, there was some material, most of it not applicable to his study, as he presently saw it; articles and pamphlets on how to organize a mobile town; how to set up a local government for it; a president, a central committee, a police and fire unit, a community mobile hospital, and so forth. They stressed the need for an adequate community of interests. There was, he noted, even an archaeological mobile town, complete with a small mobile museum. They evidently went from dig to dig, throughout North America, sometimes conducting digs of their own when they could get permission. It occurred to Ted Swain that it would be a commune after his own heart. But no; he wanted to be a professional, not an amateur.
His stomach was growling. He clicked off the TV screen, and stared ahead of him, wondering what time it was. He’d lost track of the passage of the hours. He’d been sitting there until just short of dinner, without anything in his stomach but the eggs he’d made for himself and Martha, or Marsha, or whatever the hell her name was, that morning.
Well, he didn’t have time to dial the ultramarket for the ingredients to cook a decent meal now, he thought. He’d go over to the restaurant. He came to his feet, yawning and scowling. The fact was that this was not something that could be researched in the data banks. He would have to get out in the field.
Where the hell was he going to begin? There didn’t even seem to be lists of the various communes. Evidently they came and went at such a pace that no record could be kept. They shifted. A communard might be in a local commune in New England one day and travel down to one on the Florida peninsula the next. Or, for that matter, the whole commune might make such a move.
He made his way into the living room and toward the door. That bastard Englebrecht hadn’t the foggiest notion, when he came up with this brainstorm, of what was involved. Ted had a sneaking suspicion that there were literally tens of millions of Americans now living in the many types of commune; fugitives from the ordinary way of life under this alleged Utopia, the ultrawelfare society which had evolved in the past quarter century.
