Collected Short Fiction, page 788
“I’m not a spy.”
A cool, skeptical smile. “No? Then why are you here?”
“I didn’t intend to trespass on your commune’s land. I was just passing through, heading eastward. On my way toward the sea.”
“Really?” As though he had said he had set out to walk to Pluto. “Traveling alone, are you?”
“I am.”
“When did this marvelous journey begin?”
“Yesterday morning, very early,” Michael says. “I’m from Urban Monad 116. A computer-primer, if that means anything to you. Suddenly I felt I couldn’t stay inside that building any more, that I had to find out what the outside world was like, and so I arranged to get an egress pass and slipped out just before dawn, and started walking, and then I came to your fields and your machines saw me, I guess, and I was picked up, and because of the language problem I couldn’t explain to anyone who I—”
“What do you hope to gain by spying on us?”
His shoulders slump. “I told you,” he says wearily. “I’m not a spy.”
“Urbmon people don’t slip out of their buildings. I’ve dealt with your kind for years; I know how your minds work.” Her eyes level with his. Cold, cold. “You’d be paralyzed with terror five minutes after you set out,” she assures him. “Obviously you’ve been trained for this mission, or you’d never have been able to keep your sanity for a full day in the fields. What I don’t understand is why they’d send you. You have your world and we have ours; there’s no conflict, no overlapping; there’s no need for espionage.”
“I agree,” Michael says. “And that’s why I’m not a spy.” He finds himself drawn to her despite the severity of her attitude. Her competence and self-confidence attract him. And if she would only smile she would be quite beautiful. He says, “Look, how can I get you to believe this? I just wanted to see the world outside the urbmon. All my life indoors. Never smelling fresh air, never feeling the sun on my skin. Thousands of people living on top of me. I’m not really well adjusted to urbmon society, I discovered. So I went outside. Not a spy. All I want to do is travel. To the sea, particularly. Have you ever seen the sea? ... No? That’s my dream—to walk along the shore, to hear the waves rolling in, to feel the wet sand under my feet—”
POSSIBLY the fervor in his tone is beginning to convince her. She shrugs, looking less flinty, and says, “What’s your name?”
“Michael Statler.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-three.”
“We could put you aboard the next courier pod, with the fungus shipment. You’d be back at your urbmon in half an hour.”
“No,” he says softly. “Don’t do that. Just let me keep going east. I’m not ready to go back so soon.”
“Haven’t gathered enough information, you mean?”
“I told you, I’m not—” He stops, realizing she is teasing him.
“All right. Maybe you aren’t a spy. Just a madman, perhaps.” She smiles, for the first time, and slides down until she is squatting against the wall, facing him. In an easy conversational tone she says, “What do you think of our village, Statler?”
“I don’t even know where to begin answering that.”
“How do we strike you? Simple? Complicated? Evil? Frightening? Unusual?”
“Strange,” he says.
“Strange in comparison to the kind of people you’ve lived among, or just strange, absolutely?”
“I’m not sure I know the distinction. It’s like another world out here, anyway. I—I—what’s your name, by the way?”
“Artha.”
“Arthur? Among us that’s a man’s name.”
“A-R-T-H-A.”
“Oh. Artha. How interesting. How beautiful.” He knots his fingers tightly. “The way you live so close to the soil here, Artha. There’s something dreamlike about that for me. These little houses. The plaza. Seeing you walking around in the open. The sun. Building fires. Not having any upstairs or downstairs. And that business last night, the music, the pregnant woman. What was that all about?”
“You mean the unbirth dance?”
“Is that what it was? Some kind of"—he falters—"sterility rite?”
“To ensure a good harvest,” Artha says. “To keep the crops healthy and childbirths low. We have rules about breeding, you understand.”
“And the woman everybody was hitting—she got pregnant illegally, is that it?”
“Oh, no.” Artha laughs. “Milcha’s child is quite legal.”
“Then why—tormenting her like that—she could have lost the child—”
“Someone had to do it,” Artha tells him. “The commune has eleven pregnants, just now. They drew lots and Milcha lost. Or won. It isn’t punishment, Statler. It’s a religious thing: she’s the celebrant, the holy scapegoat, the—the—I don’t have the words in your language. Through her suffering she brings health and prosperity upon the commune. Ensuring that no unwanted children will come into our women, that all will remain in perfect balance. Of course, it’s painful for her. And there’s the shame, being naked in front of everyone. But it has to be done. It’s a great honor. Milcha will never have to do it again, and she’ll have certain privileges for the rest of her life, and of course everyone is grateful to her for accepting our blows. Now we’re protected for another year.”
“Protected?”
“Against the anger of the gods.”
“Gods,” he says quietly. Swallowing the word and trying to comprehend it. After a moment he asks, “Why do you try to avoid having children?”
“Do you think we own the world?” she replies, her eyes abruptly fiery. “We have our commune. Our allotted zone of land. We must make food for ourselves and also for the urbmons, right? What would happen to you if we simply bred and bred and bred, until our village sprawled out over half of the present fields, and such remaining food as we produced was merely enough for our own needs? With nothing to spare for you. Children must be housed. Houses occupy land. How can we farm land covered by a house? We must set limits.”
“But you don’t need to sprawl your village out into the fields. You could build upward. As we do. And increase your numbers tenfold without taking up any more land area. Well, of course, you’d need more food and there’d be less to ship to us, that’s true, but—”
“You absolutely don’t understand,” Artha snaps. “Should we turn our commune into an urbmon? You have your way of life; we have ours. Ours requires us to be a few in number and live in the midst of fertile fields. Why should we become like you? We pride ourselves on not being like you. So if we expand, we must expand horizontally, right? Which would in time cover the surface of the world with a dead crust of paved streets and roads, as in the former days. No. We are beyond such things. We impose limits on ourselves, and live in the proper rhythm of our way, and we are happy. And so it shall be forever with us. Does this seem so wicked? We think the urbmon folk are wicked, for they will not control their breeding. And even encourage breeding.”
“There’s no need for us to control it,” he tells her. “It’s been mathematically proven that we haven’t begun to exhaust the possibilities of the planet. Our population could double or even triple, and as long as we continued to live in vertical cities, in urban monads, there’d be room for everyone. Without encroaching on productive farmland. We build a new urbmon every few years, and even so the food supplies aren’t diminishing, the rhythm of our way holds up, and—”
“Do you think this can continue infinitely?”
“Well, no, not infinitely,” Michael concedes. “But for a long time. Five hundred years, maybe, at the present rate of increase, before we’d feel any squeeze.”
“And then?”
“They can solve that problem when the time comes.”
Artha shakes her head furiously. “No! No! How can you say such a thing? To go on breeding, letting the future worry about it—”
“Look,” he says, “I’ve talked to my brother-in-law, who’s a historian. Specializes in the twentieth century. Back then it was believed that everybody would starve if the world’s population got past five or six billion. Much talk of a population crisis, etc., etc. Well, then came the collapse, and afterward things were reorganized, the first urbmons went up, the old horizontal pattern of land use was prohibited, and guess what? We found there was room for ten billion people. And then twenty. And then fifty. And now seventy-five. Taller buildings, more efficient food production, greater concentration of people on the unproductive land. So who are we to say that our descendants won’t continue to cope with expanding population, on up to five hundred billion, a thousand billion, who knows? The twentieth century wouldn’t have believed it was possible to support this many people on Earth. So if we worry in advance about a problem that may in fact never cause any trouble, if we unblessworthily thwart god by limiting births, we sin against life without any assurance that—”
“Pah!” Artha snorts. “You will never understand us. And I suppose we will never understand you.” Rising, she strides toward the door. “Tell me this, then. If the urbmon way is so wonderful, why did you slip away, and go out wandering in our fields?” And she does not stay for an answer. The door clicks behind her; he goes to it and finds that she has locked it. He is alone. And still a prisoner.
A LONG drab day. No one comes to him, except the girl bringing lunch: in and out. The stench of the cell oppresses him. The lack of a cleanser becomes unbearable; he imagines that the filth gathering on his skin is pitting and corroding it. From his narrow window he watches the life of the commune, craning his neck to see it all. The farming machines coming and going. The husky peasants loading sacks of produce aboard a conveyor belt disappearing into the ground—going, no doubt, to the courier-pod system that carries food to the urbmons and industrial goods to the communes. Last night’s scapegoat, Milcha, passes by, limping, bruised, apparently exempt from work today; villagers hail her with obvious reverence. She smiles and pats her belly. He does not see Artha at all. Why do they not release him? He is fairly certain that he has convinced her he is no spy. And in any case can hardly harm the commune. Yet here he remains as the afternoon fades. The busy people outside, sweating, sun-tanned, purposeful. He sees only a speck of the commune: outside the scope of his vision there must be schools, a theater, a governmental building, warehouses, repair shops. Images of last night’s unbirth dance glow morbidly in his memory. The barbarism; the wild music; the agony of the woman. But he knows that it is an error to think of these farmers as primitive, simple folk, despite such things. They seem bizarre to him, but their savagery is only superficial, a mask they don to set themselves apart from the urban people. This is a complex society held in a delicate balance. As complex as is his own. Sophisticated machinery to care for. Doubtless a computer center somewhere, controlling the planting and tending and harvesting of the crops, that requires a staff of skilled technicians. Biological needs to consider: pesticides, weed suppression, all the ecological intricacies. And the problems of the barter system that ties the commune to the urbmons. He perceives only the surface of this place, he realizes.
In late afternoon Artha returns to his cell.
“Will they let me go soon?” he asks immediately.
She shakes her head. “It’s under discussion. I’ve recommended your release. But some of them are very suspicious people.”
“Who do you mean?”
“The chiefs. You know, they’re old men, most of them, with a natural mistrust of strangers. A couple of them want to sacrifice you to the harvest god.”
“Sacrifice?”
Artha grins. There is nothing stony about her now; she is relaxed, clearly friendly. On his side. “It sounds horrid, doesn’t it? But it’s been known to happen. Our gods occasionally demand lives. Don’t you ever take life in the urbmon?”
“When someone threatens the stability of our society, yes,” he admits. “Lawbreakers go down the chute. In the combustion chambers at the bottom of the building. Contributing their body mass to our energy output. But—”
“So you kill for the sake of keeping everything running smoothly. Well, sometimes so do we. Not often. I don’t really think they’ll kill you. But it isn’t decided yet.”
“When will it be?”
“Perhaps tonight. Or tomorrow.”
“How can I represent any threat to the commune?”
“No one says you do,” Artha tells him. “Even so, to offer the life of an urbmon man may have positive values here. Increasing our blessings. It’s a philosophical thing, not easy to explain: the urbmons are the ultimate consumers, and if our harvest god symbolically consumed an urbmon instead—in a metaphorical way, taking you to stand for the whole society you come from—it would be a mystic affirmation of the unity of the two societies, the link that binds commune to urbmon and urbmon to commune, and—oh, never mind. Maybe they’ll forget about it. It’s only the day after the unbirth dance; we don’t need any more sacred protection so soon. I’ve told them that. I’d say your chances of going free are fairly good.”
“Fairly good,” he repeats gloomily. “Wonderful.” The distant sea. The ashy cone of Vesuvius. Jerusalem. The Taj Mahal. As far away as the stars, now. The sea. The sea. This stinking cell. He chokes on despair.
Artha tries to cheer him. Squatting close beside him on the tipsy floor. Her eyes warm, affectionate. Her earlier military brusqueness gone. She seems fond of him. Getting to know him better, as though she has surmounted the barrier of cultural differences that made him seem so alien to her before. And he the same with her. The separations dwindling. Her world is not his, but he thinks he could adjust to some of its unfamiliar assumptions. Strike up a closeness. He’s a man, she’s a woman, right? The basics. All the rest is façade. But as they talk, he is plunged again and again into new awarenesses of how different she is from him, he from her. He asks her about herself and she says she is unmarried. Stunned, he tells her that there are no unmarried people in the urbmons past the age of twelve or thirteen. She says she is thirty-one. Why has someone so attractive never married? “We have enough married women here,” she replies. “I had no reason to marry.” Does she not want to bear children? No, not at all. The commune has its allotted number of mothers. She has other responsibilities to occupy her. “Such as?” She explains that she is part of the liaison staff handling urbmon commerce. Which is why she can speak the language so well; she deals frequently with the urbmons, arranging for exchanges of produce for manufactured goods, setting up servicing arrangements whenever the commune’s machinery suffers a breakdown beyond the skills of the village technicians, and so forth. “I may have monitored your calls occasionally,” he says. “Some of the nodes I prime run through the procurement level. If I ever get back home, I’ll listen for you, Artha.” Her smile is dazzling. He begins to suspect that love is blossoming in this cell.
She asks him about the urbmon.
SHE has never been inside one; all her contacts with the urban monads come via communications channels. A vast curiosity is evident in her. She wants him to describe the residential apartments, the transport system, liftshafts and dropshafts, the schools, the recreational facilities. Who prepares the food? Who decides what professions the children will follow? Can you move from one city to another? Where do you keep all the new people? How do you manage not to hate each other, when you must live so close together? Don’t you feel like prisoners? Thousands of you milling about like bees in a hive—how do you stand it? And the stale air, the pale artificial light, the separation from the natural world. Incomprehensible to her: such a narrow, compressed life. And he tries to tell her about the urbmon, how even he, who chose to flee from it, really loves it. The subtle balance of need and want in it, the elaborate social system designed for minimal friction and frustration, the sense of community within one’s own city and village, the glorification of parenthood, the colossal mechanical minds in the service core that keep the delicate interplay of urban rhythms coordinated—he makes the building seem a poem of human relationships, a miracle of civilized harmonies. His words soar. Artha seems captivated. He goes on and on, in a kind of rapture of narrative, describing toilet facilities, sleeping arrangements, screens and data terminals, the recycling and reprocessing of urine and feces, the combustion of solid refuse, the auxiliary generators that produce electrical power from accumulated surplus body heat, the air vents and circulation system, the social complexity of the building’s different levels, maintenance people here, industrial workers there, scholars, entertainers, engineers, computer technicians, administrators. The senior citizen dorms, the newlywed dorms, the marriage customs, the sweet tolerance of others, the sternly enforced commandment against selfishness. And Artha nods, and fills in words for him when he leaves a sentence half finished to hurry on to the next and her face grows flushed with excitement, as if she too is caught up in the lyricism of his account of the building. Seeing for the first time in her life that it is not necessarily brutal and antihuman to pack hundreds of thousands of people into a single structure in which they spend their entire lives. As he speaks he wonders whether he is not letting himself be carried away by his own rhetoric; the words rushing from him must make him sound like an impassioned propagandist for a way of life about which, after all, he had come to have serious doubts. But yet he goes on describing, and by implication praising, the urbmon. He will not condemn. There was no other way for humanity to develop. The necessity of the vertical city. The beauty of the urbmon. Its wondrous complexity, its intricate texture. Yes, of course, there is beauty outside it, he admits that, he has gone in search of it, but it is folly to think that the urbmon itself is something loathsome, something to be deplored. In its own way magnificent. The unique solution to the population crisis. Heroic response to immense challenge. And he thinks he is getting through to her. This shrewd, cool commune woman, raised under the hot sun. His verbal intoxication transforms itself into something explicitly sexual, now: he is communicating with Artha, he is reaching her mind, they are coming together in a way that neither of them would have thought possible yesterday, and he interprets this new closeness as a physical thing. The natural eroticism of the urbmon dweller: everyone accessible to everyone else at all times. Confirm their closeness by the direct embrace. It seems like the most reasonable extension of their communion, from the conversational to the copulatory. So close already. Her eyes shining. Her small breasts. Reminding him of Micaela. He leans toward her. Left hand slipping around her shoulders, fingers groping for and finding her nearer breast. Cupping it. Nuzzles the line of her jaw with his lips, going toward her earlobe. His other hand at her waist, seeking the secret of her one garment. In a moment she’ll be naked. His body against hers, approaching congruency. Cunning experienced fingers opening the way for his thrust. And then.
