Kallocain, page 5
A chilling discovery: there I lay, feeling worried about the ambivalent warriors, as if I were one of them. I must not drift in that direction. I did not want to be ambivalent, as a fellow soldier I was absolutely wholehearted, without a drop of deceit or treachery. Those who were useless must go, even she, the slim, self-controlled mother at the celebration. From now on my slogan would be: ‘Shoot the ambivalent ones!’ And your marriage? asked a malign little thought. But I gave it the reply it deserved: If my marriage did not improve, I would get a divorce. But not until the children were past home age.
And suddenly a realization flooded me with clarity and relief: my own discovery was wholly in line with the letter from the Seventh Bureau. Had not I myself talked to the home help today in the same vein? I would be believed and forgiven because of my discovery, I had shown myself to be reliable in action, and that possessed more weight than some random words at a stupid little dinner. In spite of everything I was a good fellow soldier, and perhaps capable of becoming an even better one.
Before I fell asleep I could not help chuckling to myself at a comical and gratifying fantasy, one of those whimsical images that pop up in the mind just before you drift off: I saw the ugly, lively little man from the celebratory dinner standing with a warning in his hand, and in a cold sweat: the big red-haired man had denounced him for his attempt to spoil the festivities, and blacken the actions of the State. That was worse, really …
CHAPTER 4
Not that I was in the habit of wasting time, either after morning exercises or otherwise, but that morning I think I took my shower with particular haste, and was putting on my work uniform in order to stand to attention when the door to my laboratory opened and the control chief walked in.
When he finally arrived it was Rissen, of course. Just as I had thought.
If I was disappointed, I hoped that at least it was not visible. There had been a small, faint possibility that it might be someone else, but it was Rissen, after all. And as he stood there before me, insignificant, almost hesitant in his bearing, I had a clear sense that I did not loathe him because there was possibly something going on between him and Linda, but that on the contrary I so disliked the notion of a relationship between them for the sole reason that it involved him. Anyone else, but not him. It was unlikely that Rissen would put any additional stumbling blocks in the way of my scientific career, he was too meek and biddable for that. But I would personally have preferred a less biddable and more devious control chief, one against whom I could have measured my own strength – if at the same time I could have had some respect for him. One could not respect Rissen, he was too unlike anyone else, he was too ridiculous. It was not so easy to express what was lacking in the man, but if you used the words ‘in march-time’, it gave you some idea. The determined comportment, the clear and measured manner of speaking that were the only natural and worthy attributes of a full-grown fellow soldier, were not at Rissen’s disposal. Unexpectedly he could become far too eager, let his words stumble over one another, even render himself guilty of unintentional and comical gestures. From time to time he would make long, unmotivated pauses, subside into reflection and blurt out careless words that only the initiated could understand. When he heard people talking about something that was of particular interest to him, uncontrolled grimaces almost like those of an animal would cross his face, even in the presence of myself, a subordinate. On the one hand, I knew that as a scientist he had shining virtues; on the other, even though he was my chief I could not ignore the fact that there was a discrepancy between his value as a scientist and his value as a fellow soldier.
‘Well, well,’ he began in leisurely fashion, as if the working hours were his private property. ‘Well, well. The fact is that I have been given a very detailed report on the whole of this matter. I think I have a clear idea of it now.’
And he began to repeat the more important points of my report.
‘My chief,’ I broke in impatiently. ‘I have already taken the liberty of ordering five subjects from the Voluntary Sacrifice Service. They are sitting outside in the corridor, waiting.’
He gave me an ill-tempered look with his pensive eyes. I had the impression that he barely saw me. He was truly peculiar.
‘Well, call one of them in, then,’ he said. It sounded as though he were thinking out loud, not giving an order.
I pressed the button that rang the bell in the corridor. A moment later a man with his arm in a sling came in, halted inside the doorway, saluted and announced himself as ‘No. 135 of the Voluntary Sacrifice Service’.
Slightly irritated, I asked if it had really been impossible to send a fresh test subject. In the course of my work as an assistant at one of the medical laboratories it had happened that my chief at the time had got hold of a woman whose entire glandular system had been wiped out by an earlier test, and I had a very clear recollection of how this kept distorting the result of his investigations. I did not want to risk something of that sort. As a matter of fact, I knew from the rules and regulations that one ought to firmly insist on one’s right to have fresh test subjects: the habit of continually sending the same ones fostered a kind of cronyism, so that sometimes for long periods of time extremely conscientious and willing volunteers were denied the chance of showing their courage and obtaining some small extra earnings. A calling like the Voluntary Sacrifice Service was certainly more honourable than most, and ought to be seen as its own reward, if one were to be really strict about it – but then the salary was at the lower end of the scale, because of the many payments for injury compensation that were part and parcel of the profession.
The man stood to attention and apologized on behalf of his department. They really had no one else to send. There was a feverish amount of work going on in the poison gas laboratory just now, and the Voluntary Sacrifice Service was right in the front line, day in, day out, to the last man. As for No. 135 himself, he felt absolutely fine, except for a poison gas injury to his left hand, and as a personal apology he wished to say that as it ought to have healed long ago – even the chemist who had caused the injury was unable to say why it had not – he considered himself to be in the ‘fresh’ category, and hoped that the minor gas injury would not be a problem.
Indeed, it would not be a problem at all, so I calmed down.
‘It’s not your hands we need, but your nervous system,’ I said. ‘And in advance I can tell you that the experiment will not be painful, nor will it leave any damage, even of a temporary kind.’
No. 135 stood even more stiffly to attention, if that were possible. When he replied, his voice was almost like a fanfare:
‘I regret that the State does not yet require a greater sacrifice from me: I am ready for anything.’
‘Of course, I do not doubt it,’ I said, in a serious tone.
I was convinced that he meant what he said. My only reservation was that he placed rather too much emphasis on his heroic courage. A scientist in his laboratory can be courageous, too, even though he has not been able to show it, I thought. As a matter of fact, it was not yet too late: what he had said about the feverish work at the poison gas laboratory was another sign that a war was coming. Another sign, one that I had noted to myself in private but had not wanted to discuss in order to avoid being seen as a pessimist and grumbler, was that during recent months the food had generally become much worse.
So I sat the man down in a comfortable chair that had been brought in especially for my experiments, rolled up his sleeve, washed the crook of his elbow, and injected the small syringe filled with its pale-green liquid. The second that No. 135 felt the prick of the needle his features grew taut, making them almost handsome. I must admit that I fancied I saw a hero on the chair before me. At the same time the colour drained from his face slightly, something unlikely to be caused by the pale-green liquid which could not yet have had time to take effect.
‘How does that feel?’ I asked, encouragingly, while the contents of the syringe dwindled. Again from the rules and regulations I knew that the test subject should be asked as many questions as possible, as it gave him a sense of equality and raised him above the pain in a certain way.
‘Like normal, thank you!’ No. 135 replied, but his speech was noticeably slower, as if to conceal the fact that his lips were trembling.
While he remained seated, waiting for the effects of the drug to take hold, we studied his card, which he had put down on the table. Year of birth, sex, racial type, body type, temperament type, blood type, and so on, peculiarities in the family, illnesses (a whole series of them, nearly all caused by experiments). I copied the essential information into my new and carefully arranged card system. The only thing that caused me some uncertainty was the year of birth, but it was probably correct, and I recalled that even back in my days as an assistant I had heard and observed that the test subjects in the Voluntary Sacrifice Service generally looked ten years older than they really were. When this was done I turned again to No. 135, who was beginning to twist and turn in his chair.
‘Well?’
The man laughed in childish astonishment.
‘I feel wonderful. I’ve never felt so good. But how afraid I am …’
The moment had arrived. We listened and paid attention. My heart was thumping. What if the man said nothing at all? What if there was nothing he carried around in silence? What if what he was in the process of saying was nothing noteworthy at all? How then would my control chief ever be convinced? And how would I myself be sure? A theory, no matter how well-founded, is and remains a theory as long as it has not been proven. I could have been mistaken.
Then something happened for which I was not prepared. The big, coarse man began to sob inconsolably. He slid down in his chair, hanging over the armrest like a rag, and jerking slowly to and fro in rhythmical fashion, with long moans. I cannot express how painfully embarrassing it was, I did not know what to do with my body or my face. Rissen’s self-control, I must admit, left nothing to be desired. If he was as uncomfortably affected as me, he hid it rather better.
This went on for several minutes. I felt ashamed before my chief, as though I could be held responsible for him having to witness such scenes. And yet I could not possibly know in advance what the test subjects would reveal, and neither I nor all the rest of our laboratory had any particular position of authority over them: they were sent out from a central agency in the middle of the laboratory district, so that they could be on hand for all the surrounding institutes.
At last he calmed down. The sobbing ebbed away, and he straightened up into a more dignified posture. Eager to bring an end to the embarrassing situation, I directed at him the first question I could think of:
‘What’s the matter?’
He directed his gaze towards us. One could see very well that he was conscious of our presence and our questions, even though he was not fully aware of who we were. When he answered, he turned distinctly to us, though not as one turns to one’s superiors but as one addresses dreamed and nameless listeners.
‘I am so unhappy,’ he said impassively. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I am going to cope.’
‘Cope with what?’ I asked.
‘This, all of it. I’m so afraid. I’m always so afraid. Not right now in particular, but in general, almost always.’
‘Of the experiments?’
‘Yes, of course, the experiments. Right now I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Either it hurts or it doesn’t so much, either you become a cripple or you get better again, either you die or you go on living – what is there to be afraid of in that? But I’ve always been so afraid – it’s ridiculous, why should one be so afraid?’
The initial impassivity had now given way to a careless manner that was clearly the result of intoxication.
‘And then,’ he said, with a drunken toss of his head, ‘and then you’re even more afraid of what they’ll say. You’re a coward, they’ll say, and that is worse than anything else. You’re a coward. I’m not a coward. I don’t want to be a coward. Actually, what would it matter if I were a coward? What would it matter if they said it, when I really am? But if I lose this job … I’ll find another. They can always use you somewhere. They are damn well not going to throw me out. I’ll go myself. Voluntarily, out of the Voluntary Sacrifice Service. Voluntarily, the way I came in.’
His face clouded over again, not so much unhappy as deeply bitter.
‘I hate them,’ he went on, suddenly hard-set. ‘I hate them, strolling around their laboratories without flaw or blemish, not needing to be afraid of wounds or pain, or foreseen or unforeseen consequences. Then they go home to their wives and children. Do you think someone like me can have a family? I tried to get married once, but it didn’t work out, I think you can understand that it didn’t work out. You get too wrapped up in yourself when your life is like this. No woman can stand that. I hate all women. They entice you, you know, but then they can’t stand you. They’re deceitful. I hate them, except for my comrades in the Sacrifice Service, of course. The women in the Sacrifice Service aren’t real women any more, they’re nothing to hate. We who live over there, our life is not like that of others. We’re called fellow soldiers too, but what sort of existence do we have? We must live in the Home, for we’re like wrecks …’
His voice sank to an indistinct murmur, while he repeated: ‘I hate …’
‘My chief,’ I said, ‘do you want me to give him another injection?’
I hoped he would say no, as I found the man deeply unsympathetic. But Rissen nodded, and I had to obey. While I slowly released more pale-green liquid into No. 135’s bloodstream, I said to him, quite sharply: ‘Look, you yourself have quite rightly pointed out that it’s called the Voluntary Sacrifice Service. Then what have you got to complain about? It’s distasteful to hear a grown man complaining about his own actions. At some point you must have volunteered, without compulsion, you like all the rest.’
I am afraid that my words were not really addressed to the sedated man, who indeed in his sedation must have been quite unreceptive to reason, but rather to Rissen, so that at least he would know where he stood with me.
‘Of course I went of my own accord,’ mumbled No. 135, dazed and confused, ‘of course I went of my own accord – but I didn’t know that it was like it was. I think I thought it meant suffering – but in a different way, a more noble way – and dying – but instantly, and in rapture. Not day and night, inch by inch. I think it would be wonderful to die. You could beat your arms about. You could make the death rattle. I saw someone die at the Home once – he beat his arms about and rattled. It was dreadful. But it wasn’t just dreadful. It can’t be imitated. And ever since, I’ve never stopped thinking that it would be wonderful to be able to behave like that, just once. After all, we all have to do it, it’s inevitable. If it was voluntary it would be indecent. But it isn’t voluntary: no one is allowed to stop it for you. You simply do it. When you’re dying you’re allowed to behave any way you want, and no one can stop you.’
I stood twirling a glass rod in my fingers.
‘The man must be perverse in some way,’ I said to Rissen quietly. ‘A healthy fellow soldier doesn’t react like that.’
Rissen made no reply.
‘Can you really be so inconsiderate as to put the blame …’ I began a rather heated address to the test subject. I noticed that Rissen gave me a long look, at once cold and amused, and felt myself blushing at the notion that now he probably thought I was putting on airs for him. (A very unjust notion, I believed.) However, I had to finish the sentence, and continued in a rather more docile tone of voice: ‘… on others, because you’ve chosen a profession which now you don’t think suits you?’
No. 135 did not appear to react at all to the tone and inflexion of my voice, merely to the question itself.
‘Others?’ he said. ‘Me? But I don’t want that. Though it’s true, I did. There were ten of us from our section who signed up, more than from any other section in the whole youth camp. It passed through the camp like a hurricane – I’ve often wondered how that came about. Everything simply led to the Voluntary Sacrifice Service. Lectures, films, discussions: the Voluntary Sacrifice Service. And in the early years I still thought: it was worth all this. We went and signed up, you know. And when you looked at your neighbour, you didn’t really see a human being any more. The faces, you see. Like fire. Not like flesh and blood. Sacred, divine. In the early years, I thought: it’s been given to us to experience something different and greater than ordinary mortals experience, and now we are paying in, and we can, after what we have seen … But we can’t. I can’t. I can’t hold on to the memory any more, it’s slipping away, further and further away. Sometimes, before, it would gleam when I wasn’t seeking it at all, but every time I seek – and I have to seek in order to find meaning in my life – I notice that it doesn’t want to any more, it has slipped too far away. I think I’ve worn it out by seeking it too much. Sometimes I lie awake and brood about how it would have been if I’d had an ordinary life – would I have been able to experience a similarly great moment once more, perhaps, or perhaps not until now – or would all that greatness have spread out across my life, so that it still had a meaning – or at any rate, not have been so helplessly over, finished. Everyone needs a now, you know, not just a vanished moment that you must live on for the rest of your life. It’s impossible to cope with this, even if you were once allowed to experience … But you’re ashamed. Ashamed to betray the only moment in life that was worth something. Betray. Why does a person betray? All I want is an ordinary life, so I can find meaning again. I took on too much. I can’t manage. Tomorrow I’ll go and tell them that I’m quitting.’
A kind of relaxation ensued. Once more he broke the silence:
‘Do you think you encounter a moment like that one more time – when you die? I’ve thought about that a lot. I would like to die. Even if you don’t get anything from life any more, then at least you get that. When people say: I can’t manage, they mean: I can’t manage to live. They don’t mean: I can’t manage to die – for they can manage that, you can always manage to die, for then you can be as you want to be …’
