Kingbrook snorted and said something under his breath. Beaucamp glared at him and said, “I didn’t hear your words, but I know what you said! Mr. President, I intend to speak loudly and clearly about this arrogant discrimination! I had one of my men run the list of accepted citizens through a computer, and he reports that the citizens will be 100 percent Negro! And 7/8ths are welfares!”
“The other eighth are doctors, technicians, teachers, and other professionals,” the President said. “All volunteers. There, by the way, goes the argument that no one will work if he doesn’t have to. These people will be living in this city and getting no money for their labor. We had to turn down many volunteers because there was no need for them.”
“Especially since the government has been using public funds to brainwash us with the Great-Love-and-Service-for-Humanity campaign for twenty years,” Kingbrook said.
“I never heard you making any speeches knocking love or service,” the President said. “However, there is another motive which caused so many to offer their services. Money may die out, but the desire for prestige won’t. The wish for prestige is at least as old as mankind itself and maybe older.”
“I can’t believe that no whites asked to live here,” Beaucamp said.
“The rule was, first apply, first accepted,” the President said. “The whole procedure was computer-run, and the application blanks contained no reference to race.”
Corrigan said. “You know that computers have been gimmicked or their operators bribed.”
The President said, “I am sure that an investigation would uncover nothing crooked.”
“The gyps,” Corrigan said, then stopped at Beaucamp’s glare. “I mean, the guaranteed income people, or welfares as we called them when I was a kid, well, the GIP whites will be screaming discrimination.”
“The whites could have volunteered,” the President said.
Beaucamp’s lip was curled. “Somebody spread the word. Of course, that would have nothing to do with lack of Caucasian applications.”
Kingbrook rumbled like a volcano preparing to erupt. He said, “What’re we arguing about this for? This…Bird City…was built over an all-colored section. So why shouldn’t its citizens be colored? Let’s stick to the point. You want to build more cities just like this, Mr. President, extend them outwards from this until you have one solid megalopolis on stilts extending from Santa Barbara to Long Beach. But you can’t build here or in other states without absolutely bankrupting the country. So you want to get us to back your legislative proposals for your so-called ORE. That is, split the economy of the nation in half. One half will continue operating just as before; that half will be made up of private-enterprise industries and of the taxpayers who own or work for these industries. This half will continue to buy and sell and use money as it has always done.
“But the other half will be composed of GIP’s, living in cities like this, and the government will take care of their every need. The government will do this by automating the mines, farms, and industries it now owns or plans on obtaining. It will not use money anywhere in its operations, and the entire process of input-output will be a closed circuit. Everybody in ORE will be GIP personnel, even the federal and state government service, except, of course, that the federal, legislative, and executive branches will maintain their proper jurisdiction.”
“That sounds great,” Corrigan said. “The ultimate result, or so you’ve said, Mr. President, is to relieve the taxpayer of his crushing burden and to give the GIP a position in society in which he will no longer be considered by others as a parasite. It sounds appealing. But there are many of us who aren’t fooled by your fine talk.”
“I’m not trying to fool anybody,” the President said.
Corrigan said, angrily, “It’s obvious what the end result will be! When the taxpayer sees the GIP living like a king without turning a hand while he has to work his tail off, he’s going to want the same deal. And those who refuse to give up won’t have enough money to back their stand because the GIP won’t be spending any money. The small businessmen who live off their sales to the GIP will go under. And the larger businesses will, too. Eventually, the businessman and his employees will fold their fiscal and pecuniary tents and go to live in your everything-free cornucopias!
“So, if we’re seduced by your beautiful scheme for a half-and-half economy, we’ll take the first step into the quicksand. After that, it’ll be too late to back out. Down we go!”
“I’d say, Up we go,” the President said; “So! It’s All-or-None, as far as you’re concerned? And you vote for None! Well, gentlemen, over one-half of the nation is saying All because that’s the only way to go and they’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain. If you kill the switchover legislation in Congress, I’ll see that the issues are submitted to the people for their yea or nay. But that would take too much time, and time is vital. Time is what I’m buying. Or I should say, trading.”
Beaucamp said, “Mister President, you didn’t point out the racial composition of the city just to pass the time.”
The President began pacing back and forth before them. He said, “The civil rights revolution was born about the same time that you and I, Mr. Beaucamp, were born. Yet, it’s still far from achieving its goals. In some aspects, it’s regressed. It was tragic that the Negroes began to get the education and political power they needed for advancement just as automation began to bloom. The Negro found that there were only jobs for the professionals and the skilled. The unskilled were shut out. This happened to the untrained white, too, and competition for work between the unskilled white and black became bitter. Bloodily bitter, as the past few years have shown us.”
“We know what’s been going on, Mr. President,” Beaucamp said.
“Yes. Well, it’s true isn’t it, that the black as a rule, doesn’t particularly care to associate or live with the whites? He just wants the same things whites have. But at the present rate of progress, it’ll take a hundred years or more before he gets them. In fact, he may never do so if the present economy continues.”
Kingbrook rumbled, “The point, Mr. President!”
The President stopped pacing. He looked hard at them and said, “But in an economy of abundance, in this type of city, he—the Negro—will have everything the whites have. He will have a high standard of living, a true democracy, color-free justice. He’ll have his own judges, police, legislators. If he doesn’t care to, he doesn’t ever have to have any personal contact with whites.”
Kingbrook’s cigar sagged. Beaucamp sucked in his breath. Corrigan jumped up from his chair.
Beaucamp said, “That’s ghettoism!”
“Not in the original sense,” the President said. “The truth now, Mr. Beaucamp. Don’t your people prefer to live with their own kind? Where they’ll be free of that shadow, that wall, always between white and colored in this country?”
Beaucamp said, “Not to have to put up with honkeys! Excuse the expression, sir. It slipped out. You know we would! But…”
“No one will be forbidden to live in any community he chooses. There won’t be any discrimination on the federal level. Those in the government, military, or Nature rehabilitation service will have equal opportunity. But, given the choice…”
The President turned to Kingbrook and Corrigan. “Publicly, you two have always stood for integration. You would have committed political suicide, otherwise. But I know your private opinions. You have also been strong states-righters. No secret about that. So, when the economy of abundance is in full swing, the states will become self-sufficient. They won’t depend on federal funds.”
“Because there’ll be no dependence on money?” Corrigan said. “Because there’ll be no money? Because money will be as extinct as the dodo?”
The ridges on Kingbrook’s face shifted as if they were the gray backs of an elephant herd milling around to catch a strange scent. He said, “I’m not blasphemous. But now I think I know how Christ fell when tempted by Satan.”
He stopped, realizing that he had made a Freudian slip.
“And you’re not Christ and I’m not Satan,” he said hurriedly. “We’re just human beings trying to find a mutually agreeable way out of this mess.”
Beaucamp said, “We’re horse traders. And the horse is the future. A dream. Or a nightmare.”
The President looked at his watch and said, “What about it, Mr. Beaucamp?”
“What can I trade? A dream of an end to contempt, dislike, hatred, treachery, oppression. A dream of the shadow gone, the wall down. Now you offer me abundance, dignity, and joy—if my people stay within the plastic walls.”
“I don’t know what will develop after the walls of the cities have been built,” the President said. “But there is nothing evil about self-segregation, if it’s not compulsive. It’s done all the time by human beings of every type. If it weren’t, you wouldn’t have social classes, clubs, etc. And if, after our citizens are given the best in housing and food, luxuries, a free lifelong education, a wide spectrum of recreations, everything within reason, if they still go to Hell, then we might as well give up on the species.”
“A man needs incentive; he needs work. By the sweat of his brow…” Kingbrook said.
Kingbrook was too old, the President thought. He was half-stone, and the stone thought stone thoughts and spoke stone words. The President looked out the big window. Perhaps it had been a mistake to build such a “futuristic” city. It would be difficult enough for the new citizens to adjust. Perhaps the dome of Bird City should have contained buildings resembling those they now lived in. Later, more radical structures could have been introduced.
As it was, the ovoid shape was supposed to give a sense of security, a feeling of return-to-the-womb and also to suggest a rebirth. Just now, they looked like so many space capsules ready to take off into the blue the moment the button was pressed.
But this city, and those that would be added to it, meant a sharp break with the past, and any break always caused some pain.
He turned when someone coughed behind him. Senator Kingbrook was standing, his hand on his chest. The senator was going to make a speech.
The President looked at his watch and shook his head. Kingbrook smiled as if the smile hurt him, and he dropped his hand.
“It’s yes, Mr. President. I’ll back you all the way. And the impeachment proceedings will be dropped, of course. But…”
“I don’t want to be rude,” the President said. “But you can save your justifications for your constituents.”
Beaucamp said, “I say yes. Only…”
“No ifs, ands, or buts.”
“No. Only…”
“And you, Governor Corrigan?” the President said.
Corrigan said, “All of us are going along with you for reasons that shouldn’t be considered—from the viewpoint of ideals. But then, who really ever has? I say yes. But…”
“No speeches, please,” the President said. He smiled slightly. “Unless I make them. Your motives don’t really matter, gentlemen, as long as your decisions are for the good of the American public. Which they are. And for the good of the world, too, because all other nations are going to follow our example. As I said, this means the death of capitalism, but it also means the death of socialism and communism, too.”
He looked at his watch again. “I thank you, gentlemen.”
They looked as if they would like to continue talking, but they left. There was a delay of a few seconds before the next group entered.
He felt weary, even though he knew that he would win out. The years ahead would be times of trouble, of crises, of pain and agony, of successes and failures. At least, mankind would no longer be drifting towards anarchy. Man would be deliberately shaping—reshaping—his society, turning topsyturvy an ancient and obsolete economy, good enough in its time but no longer applicable. At the same time, he would be tearing down the old cities and restoring Nature to something of its pristine condition, healing savage wounds inflicted by senseless selfish men in the past, cleansing the air, the poisoned rivers and lakes, growing new forests, permitting the wild creatures to flourish in their redeemed land. Man, the greedy savage child, had stripped the earth, killed the wild, fouled his own nest.
His anger, he suddenly realized, had been to divert him from that other feeling. Somehow, he had betrayed an ideal. He could not define the betrayal, because he knew that he was doing what had to be done and that that way was the only way. But he, and Kingbrook, Corrigan, and Beaucamp, had also felt this. He had seen it on their faces, like ectoplasm escaping the grasp of their minds.
A man had to be realistic. To gain one thing, you had to give up another. Life—the universe—was give and take, input and output, energy surrendered to conquer energy.
In short, politics. Compromises.
The door slid into the recess in the walls. Five men single-filed in. The President weighed each in the balance, anticipating his arguments and visualizing the bait which he would grab even if he saw the hook.
He said, “Gentlemen, be seated if you wish.”
He looked at his watch and began to talk.
RIDERS OF THE PURPLE WAGE
or
The Great Gavage
If Jules Verne could really have looked into the future, say 1966 A.D., he would have crapped in his pants. And Z166, oh, my!
—from Grandpa Winnegan’s unpublished Ms. How I Screwed Uncle Sam & Other Private Ejaculations.
THE COCK THAT CROWED BACKWARDS
Un and Sub, the giants, are grinding him for bread.
Broken pieces float up through the wine of sleep. Vast treadings crush abysmal grapes for the incubus sacrament.
He as Simple Simon fishes in his soul as pail for the leviathan.
He groans, half-wakes, turns over, sweating dark oceans, and groans again. Un and Sub, putting their backs to their work, turn the stone wheels of the sunken mill, muttering Fie, fye, fo, fum. Eyes glittering orange-red as a cat’s in a cubbyhole, teeth dull white digits in the murky arithmetic.
Un and Sub, Simple Simons themselves, busily mix metaphors non-self-consciously.
Dunghill and cock’s egg: up rises the cockatrice and gives first crow, two more to come, in the flushrush of blood of dawn of I-am-the-erection-and-the-strife.
It grows out and out until weight and length merge to curve it over, a not-yet weeping willow or broken reed. The one-eyed red head peeks over the edge of bed. It rests its chinless jaw, then, as body swells, slides over and down. Looking monocularly this way and those, it sniffs archaically across the floor and heads for the door, left open by the lapsus linguae of malingering sentinels.
A loud braying from the center of the room makes it turn back. The three-legged ass, Baalim’s easel, is heehawing. On the easel is the “canvas,” an oval shallow pan of irradiated plastic, specially treated. The canvas is two meters high and forty-four centimeters deep. Within the painting is a scene that must be finished by tomorrow.
As much sculpture as painting, the figures are in alto-relief, rounded, some nearer the back of the pan than others. They glow with light from outside and also from the self-luminous plastic of the “canvas.” The light seems to enter the figures, soak awhile, then break loose. The light is pale red, the red of dawn, of blood watered with tears, of anger, of ink on the debit side of the ledger.
This is one of his Dog Series: Dogmas from a Dog, The Aerial Dogfight, Dog Days, The Sundog, Dog Reversed, The Dog of Flinders, Dog Berries, Dog Catcher, Lying Doggo, The Dog of the Right Angle, and Improvisations on a Dog.
Socrates, Ben Jonson, Cellini, Swedenborg, Li Po, and Hiawatha are roistering in the Mermaid Tavern. Through a window, Daedalus is seen on top of the battlements of Cnossus, shoving a rocket up the ass of his son, Icarus, to give him a jet-assisted takeoff for his famous flight. In one corner crouches Og, Son of Fire. He gnaws on a sabertooth bone and paints bison and mammoths on the mildewed plaster. The barmaid, Athena, is bending over the table where she is se
rving nectar and pretzels to her distinguished customers. Aristotle, wearing goat’s horns, is behind her. He has lifted her skirt and is tupping her from behind. The ashes from the cigarette dangling from his smirking lips have fallen onto her skirt, which is beginning to smoke. In the doorway of the men’s room, a drunken Batman succumbs to a long-pressed desire and attempts to bugger the Boy Wonder. Through another window is a lake on the surface of which a man is walking, a green-tarnished halo hovering over his head. Behind him a periscope sticks out of the water.
Prehensile, the penisnake wraps itself around the brush and begins to paint. The brush is a small cylinder attached at one end to a hose which runs to a dome-shaped machine. From the other end of the cylinder extends a nozzle. The aperture of this can be decreased or increased by rotation of a thumb-dial on the cylinder. The paint which the nozzle deposits in a fine spray or in a thick stream or in whatever color or hue desired is controlled by several dials on the cylinder.
Furiously, proboscisean, it builds up another figure layer by layer. Then, it sniffs a musty odor of must and drops the brush and slides out the door and down the bend of wall of oval hall, describing the scrawl of legless creatures, a writing in the sand which all may read but few understand. Blood pumppumps in rhythm with the mills of Un and Sub to feed and swill the hot-blooded reptile. But the walls, detecting intrusive mass and extrusive desire, glow.
He groans, and the glandular cobra rises and sways to the fluting of his wish for cuntcealment. Let there not be light! The lights must be his cloaka. Speed past mother’s room, nearest the exit. Ah! Sighs softly in relief but air whistles through the vertical and tight mouth, announcing the departure of the exsupress for Desideratum.
The door has become archaic; it has a keyhole. Quick! Up the ramp and out of the house through the keyhole and out onto the street. One person abroad a broad, a young woman with phosphorescent silver hair and snatch to match.