OPERATOR.
“Give me the Police Department,” he said.
“I
beg your pardon?” said the operator.
He
tried again. “The Law Force,” he said.
“I
will connect you with the Peace Control,” she said, at last.
A
little fear began ticking inside him like a tiny watch. Suppose the operator
recognized the term Police Department as an anachronism, took his audio number,
and sent someone out to investigate? No, she wouldn’t do that. Why should she
suspect? Paranoids were nonexistent in this civilization.
“Yes,
the Peace Control,” he said.
A
buzz. A man’s voice answered. “Peace Control. Stephens speaking.”
“Give
me the Homicide Detail,” said Lantry, smiling.
“The what? ”
“Who
investigates murders?”
“I
beg your pardon, what are you talking about?”
“Wrong
number.” Lantry hung up, chuckling. Ye gods, there was no such a thing as a
Homicide Detail. There were no murders, therefore they needed no detectives.
Perfect, perfect!
The
audio rang back. Lantry hesitated, then answered.
“Say,”
said the voice on the phone. “Who are you?”
“The
man just left who called,” said Lantry, and hung up again.
He
ran. They would recognize his voice and perhaps send someone out to check.
People didn’t lie. He had just lied.
They knew his voice. He had lied. Anybody who lied needed a psychiatrist. They
would come to pick him up to see why he was lying. For no other reason. They suspected him of nothing else. Therefore—he must
run.
Oh,
how very carefully he must act from now on. He knew nothing of this world, this
odd straight truthful ethical world. Simply by looking pale you were suspect.
Simply by not sleeping nights you were suspect. Simply by not bathing, by
smelling like a—dead cow?—you were suspect. Anything.
He
must go to a library. But that was dangerous, too. What were libraries like
today? Did they have books or did they have film spools which projected books
on a screen? Or did people have libraries at home, thus eliminating the
necessity of keeping large main libraries?
He
decided to chance it. His use of archaic terms might well make him suspect
again, but now it was very important he learn all that could be learned of this
foul world into which he had come again. He stopped a man on the street. “Which
way to the library?”
The
man was not surprised. “Two blocks east, one block north.”
“Thank
you.”
Simple
as that.
He
walked into the library a few minutes later.
“May
I help you?”
He
looked at the librarian. May I help you, may I help you. What a world of
helpful people! “I’d like to ‘have’ Edgar Allan Poe.” His verb was carefully
chosen. He didn’t say ‘read.’ He was too afraid that books were passé, that
printing itself was a lost art. Maybe all ‘books’ today were in the form of
fully delineated three-dimensional motion pictures. How in blazes could you
make a motion picture out of Socrates, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and Freud?
“What
was that name again?”
“Edgar
Allan Poe.”
“There
is no such author listed in our files.”
“Will
you please check?”
She
checked. “Oh, yes. There’s a red mark on the file card. He was one of the
authors in the Great Burning of 2265.
“How
ignorant of me.”
“Give me the Police Department,” he said.
“I
beg your pardon?” said the operator.
He
tried again. “The Law Force,” he said.
“I
will connect you with the Peace Control,” she said, at last.
A
little fear began ticking inside him like a tiny watch. Suppose the operator
recognized the term Police Department as an anachronism, took his audio number,
and sent someone out to investigate? No, she wouldn’t do that. Why should she
suspect? Paranoids were nonexistent in this civilization.
“Yes,
the Peace Control,” he said.
A
buzz. A man’s voice answered. “Peace Control. Stephens speaking.”
“Give
me the Homicide Detail,” said Lantry, smiling.
“The what? ”
“Who
investigates murders?”
“I
beg your pardon, what are you talking about?”
“Wrong
number.” Lantry hung up, chuckling. Ye gods, there was no such a thing as a
Homicide Detail. There were no murders, therefore they needed no detectives.
Perfect, perfect!
The
audio rang back. Lantry hesitated, then answered.
“Say,”
said the voice on the phone. “Who are you?”
“The
man just left who called,” said Lantry, and hung up again.
He
ran. They would recognize his voice and perhaps send someone out to check.
People didn’t lie. He had just lied.
They knew his voice. He had lied. Anybody who lied needed a psychiatrist. They
would come to pick him up to see why he was lying. For no other reason. They suspected him of nothing else. Therefore—he must
run.
Oh,
how very carefully he must act from now on. He knew nothing of this world, this
odd straight truthful ethical world. Simply by looking pale you were suspect.
Simply by not sleeping nights you were suspect. Simply by not bathing, by
smelling like a—dead cow?—you were suspect. Anything.
He
must go to a library. But that was dangerous, too. What were libraries like
today? Did they have books or did they have film spools which projected books
on a screen? Or did people have libraries at home, thus eliminating the
necessity of keeping large main libraries?
He
decided to chance it. His use of archaic terms might well make him suspect
again, but now it was very important he learn all that could be learned of this
foul world into which he had come again. He stopped a man on the street. “Which
way to the library?”
The
man was not surprised. “Two blocks east, one block north.”
“Thank
you.”
Simple
as that.
He
walked into the library a few minutes later.
“May
I help you?”
He
looked at the librarian. May I help you, may I help you. What a world of
helpful people! “I’d like to ‘have’ Edgar Allan Poe.” His verb was carefully
chosen. He didn’t say ‘read.’ He was too afraid that books were passé, that
printing itself was a lost art. Maybe all ‘books’ today were in the form of
fully delineated three-dimensional motion pictures. How in blazes could you
make a motion picture out of Socrates, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and Freud?
“What
was that name again?”
“Edgar
Allan Poe.”
“There
is no such author listed in our files.”
“Will
you please check?”
She
checked. “Oh, yes. There’s a red mark on the file card. He was one of the
authors in the Great Burning of 2265.
“How
ignorant of me.”
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