Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Slave Planet by Laurence M. Janifer (best detective novels of all time txt) 📖
- Author: Laurence M. Janifer
Book online «Slave Planet by Laurence M. Janifer (best detective novels of all time txt) 📖». Author Laurence M. Janifer
"But surely—" Willis began.
"Dr. Willis, you are outdoing yourself," the old woman cut in. "You sound as if you are hopeful about idealism resting somewhere even in us. And perhaps it does, perhaps it does. It is a persistent virus. But I hope we can control its more massive outbreaks, gentlemen, and not attempt to convince ourselves that this disease is actually a state of health." She began to pace again. "Idealism is a disease," she said. "In epidemic proportions, it becomes incurable."
"Then there is nothing to be done?" Dward asked.
"Dr. Rogier has his preparations," the old woman said. "I'm sure they are as efficient as they can be. They are useless, but he knows that as well as I do."
"Now wait a—" Rogier began.
"Against ships of the Confederation, armed with God alone knows what after better than one hundred years of progress? Don't be silly, Dr. Rogier. Our preparations are better than nothing, perhaps, but not much better. They can't be."
Having reached her chair again, she sat down in it. The meeting was silent for better than a minute. Dr. Rogier was the first to speak. "But, don't you see," he said, "that's just why we need to know what's going on in your division. Perhaps a weapon might be forged from the armory of psychology which—"
"Before that metaphor becomes any more mixed," Dr. Haenlingen said, "I want to clear one thing up. I am not going to divulge any basic facts about my division, now or ever."
"But—"
"I want you to listen to me carefully," she said. "The tools of psychology are both subtle and simple. Anyone can use a few of them. And anyone, in possession of only those few, will be tempted to put them to use. That use is dangerous, more dangerous than a ticking bomb. I will not run the risk of such danger."
"Surely we are all responsible men—" Rogier began.
"Given enough temptation," Dr. Haenlingen said, "there is no such thing as a responsible man. If there were, none of us would be here, on Fruyling's World. None of us would be masters, and none of the Alberts slaves."
"I'll give you an example," she said after a little time. "The Psych division has parties, parties which are rather well-known among other divisions. The parties involve drinking and promiscuous sex, they get rather wild, but there is no great harm done by these activities. Indeed, they provide a useful, perhaps a necessary release." She paused. "Therefore I have forbidden them."
Willis said: "What?" The others waited.
"I have forbidden them," she said, "but I have not stopped them. Nor will I. The fact that they are forbidden adds a certain—spice to the parties themselves. My 'discovery' of one of them does shake the participants up a trifle, but this is a minor damage: more important, it keeps alive the idea of 'forbidden fruit'. The parties are extremely popular. They are extremely useful. Were I to permit them, they would soon be neither popular nor useful."
"I'm afraid I don't quite see that," Dward put in.
Dr. Haenlingen nodded. For the first time, she put her arms on the table and leaned a little forward. "Many of the workers here," she said, "are infected by the disease of idealism. The notion of slavery bothers them. They need to rebel against the establishment in order to make that protest real to them, and in order to release hostility which might otherwise destroy us from the inside. In my own division this has been solved simply by creating a situation in which the workers fear me—fear being a compound of love, or awe, and hatred. This, however, will not do on a scale larger than one division: a dictatorship complex is set up, against which rebellion may still take place. Therefore, the parties. They serve as a harmless release for rebellious spirits. The parties are forbidden. Those who attend them are flouting authority. Their tension fades. They become good workers, for us, instead of idealistic souls, against us."
"Interesting," Rogier said. "May we take it that this is a sample of the work you have been doing?"
"You may," the old woman said flatly.
"And—about the current crisis—your suggestions—"
"My suggestion, gentlemen, is simple," Dr. Haenlingen said. "I can see nothing except an Act of God which is going to stop the current Confederation movement against us. The leak has occurred: we are done for if it affects governmental policy. My suggestion, gentlemen, is just this: pray."
Unbelievingly, Willis echoed: "Pray?"
"To whatever God you believe in, gentlemen," Dr. Haenlingen said. "To whatever God permits you to remain masters on a slave world. Pray to him—because nothing less than a God is going to stop the Confederation from attacking this planet."
PUBLIC OPINION TWO
Being an excerpt from a conversation between Mrs. Fellacia Gordon, (Citizen, white female, age thirty-eight, occupation housewife, residence 701-45 West 305 Street, New York, U. S. A., Earth) and Mrs. Gwen Brandon (Citizen, oriental female, age thirty-six, occupation housewife, residence 701-21 West 313 Street, New York, U. S. A., Earth) on a Minimart bench midway between the two homes, in the year of the Confederation two hundred and ten, on May sixteenth, afternoon.
MRS. GORDON: They've all been talking about it, how those poor things have to work and work until they drop, and they don't even get paid for it or anything.
MRS. BRANDON: What do you mean, don't get paid? Of course they get paid. You have to get paid when you work, don't you?
MRS. GORDON: Not those poor things. They're slaves.
MRS. BRANDON: Slaves? Like in the olden times?
MRS. G.: That's what they say. Everybody's talking about it.
MRS. B.: Well. Why don't they do something about it, then, the ones that are like that? I mean, there's always something you can do.
MRS. G.: They're just being forced to work until they absolutely drop, is what I hear. And all for a bunch of people who just lord it over them with guns and everything. You see, these beings—they're green, not like us, but they have feelings, too—
MRS. B.: Of course they do, Fellacia.
MRS. G.: Well. They don't have much education, hardly know anything. So when people with guns come in, you see, there just isn't anything they can do about it.
MRS. B.: Why are they let, then?
MRS. G.: Who, the people with guns? Well, nobody lets them, not just like that. It's just like we only found out about it now.
MRS. B.: I didn't hear a word on the news.
MRS. G.: You listen tonight and you'll hear a word, Gwen dear.
MRS. B.: Oh, my. That sounds like there's something up. Now, what have you been doing?
MRS. G.: Don't you think it's right, for these poor beings? I mean, no pay and nothing at all but work, work, work until they absolutely drop?
MRS. B.: What have you been doing? I mean, what can any one person do? Of course it's terrible and all that, but—
MRS. G.: We talked it over. I mean the group I belong to, you know. On Wednesday. Because all of us had heard something about it, you see, and so we brought it up and discussed it. And it's absolutely true.
MRS. B.: How can you be sure of a thing like that?
MRS. G.: We found out—
MRS. B.: When it isn't even on the news or anything.
MRS. G.: We found out that people have been talking from other places, too. Downtown and even in the suburbs.
MRS. B.: Oh. Then it must be—but what can you do, after all? It's not as if we were in the government or anything.
MRS. G.: Don't you worry about that. There's something you can do and it's not hard, either. And it has an effect. A definite effect, they say.
MRS. B.: You mean collecting money? To send them?
MRS. G.: Money won't do them any good. No. What we need is the government, to do something about this.
MRS. B.: It's easy to talk.
MRS. G.: And we can get the government to do something, too. If there are enough of us—and there will be.
MRS. B.: I should think anybody who hears about these people, Fellacia—
MRS. G.: Well, they're not people, exactly.
MRS. B.: What difference does that make? They need help, don't they? And we can give them help. If you really have an idea?
MRS. G.: We discussed it all. And we've been writing letters.
MRS. B.: Letters? Just letters?
MRS. G.: If a Senator gets enough letters, he has to do something, doesn't he? Because the letters are from the people who vote for him, you see?
MRS. B.: But that means a lot of letters.
MRS. G.: We've had everybody sending postcards. Fifteen or twenty each. That mounts up awfully fast, Gwen dear.
MRS. B.: But just postcards—
MRS. G.: And telephone calls, where that's possible. And visits. And starting even more talk everywhere. Just everywhere.
MRS. B.: Do you really think it's going to work? I mean, it seems like so little.
MRS. G.: It's going to work. It's got to.
MRS. B.: What are they working at? I mean the—the slaves.
MRS. G.: They're being forced, Gwen dear. Absolutely forced to work.
MRS. B.: Yes, dear, but what at? What do they do?
MRS. G.: I don't see where that makes any difference. Actually, nobody has been very clear on the details. But the details don't matter, do they, Gwen dear? The important thing is, we have to do something.
MRS. B.: You're right, Fellacia. And I'll—
MRS. G.: Of course I'm right.
MRS. B.: I'll start right in with the postcards. A lot of them.
MRS. G.: And don't forget to tell other people. As many as you can manage. We need all the help we can get—and so do the slaves.
10The days passed and the training went on, boring and repetitious as each man tried to hammer into the obdurate head of an Albert just enough about his own particular section of machinery so that he could run it capably and call for help in case of emergencies. And, though every man on Fruyling's World disliked every moment of the job, the job was necessary, and went on: though they, too, were slaves to a great master, none thought of rebelling. For the name of the master was necessity, and economic law, and from that rule there are no rebels. The days passed evenly and the work went slowly on.
And then the training was finished. The new Alberts went on a daily work-schedule, supervised only by the spy-sets and an occasional, deliberately random visit from a master. The visits were necessary, too: the Alberts had not the sophistication to react to a spy-set, and personal supervision was needed to convince them they were still being watched, they still had to work. A master came, a master saw them working: that, they could understand.
That—and the punishments. These went under the name of discipline, and had three grades. The Belbis beams administered all three, by means of a slight readjustment in the ray. It was angled as widely as possible, and the dispersed beam, carefully controlled, acted directly on the nervous system.
Cadnan, troubled by Marvor's threats and by his own continuing thoughts of Dara, was a trifle absent-minded and a little slower than standard. He drew punishment twice, both times in the first grade only. Albin administered both punishments, explaining to his partner Derbis that he didn't mind doing it—and, besides, someone had to.
Sometimes Dodd thought of Albin giving out discipline, and of all of his life on Fruyling's World, in terms of a sign he had once seen. It had been a joke, he remembered that clearly, but it was no more a joke now than the words which flashed nearly ignored at the back of his mind. Once or twice he had imagined this new sign hanging luridly over the entire planet, posted there in the name of profit, in the name
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