The Cosmic Eye (UC), page 5
His reaction was betraying. He started, to see Rex there at his post next to the door. His eyes flickered and he made a quick shuffle backward. Too late. The automated door had closed behind him. He began to bring his hands up defensively.
Too late, again. Rex slugged him against the jaw and the other staggered backward, dazed, Rex moved in quickly and slugged him again. The man collapsed forward, came to his knees shaking his head He was a brute. Refusing to go out He made a gurgling noise in his throat.
Rex Morris put everything into the next blow. Every ounce of his weight The man collapsed forward onto his face.
Rex shot a look at the door, then knelt quickly and began going through the stranger's clothing. He came up with a wallet, opened it hurriedly, came out with the other's Universal Credit Card. It was on thick white plastic, Senior Effective caste, in short, and his Functional Sequence was Security.
Rex, in disgust, rammed the card back into the wallet and returned it to the fallen man's pocket
He came to his feet and stared down, thinking rapidly. Great Scott, this was all he needed. Why had he been such an ass as to attack the man? After this morning's experience with Engineer Fredrics, he might have deduced than anyone following him must be from Security. But he'd had to be sure. At this stage of the game, he couldn't take the chance of there being unknowns.
He came to a suddeu decision. Checked the man's condition. Decided the other would be out for at least another five minutes. Swung on his heel and left.
He marched indignantly to the door from which the establishment's manager had emerged earlier, stood there before the identity screen and snapped, "I demand some attention out herel"
One or two of the place's habitues, seated nearby, looked over at him but he ignored them, making a great show of indignation. The door opened and the timid soul wasjhere and immediately began bobbing.
Rex glared at him. "What sort of an establishment is this?"
"Yes, sir. Uh, yes sir. What seems to be the trouble? The beer? I don't want to seem controversial but sometimes the beer ain't what…"
"The beer, indeed!" Rex Morris' ire increased. "Do you realize what just happened to me in your filthy rest-room?"
The other stared at him in complete astonishment. His Adam's apple bobbed. "Well, no sir . . : What?"
"I was attacked by a pervert, or a footpad, or whatever he might turn out to be."
"Attacked?" The little man's eyes were bugging.
"Exactly! Thank heavens I was able to defend myself. I demand that you immediately notify the Security Functional Sequence and have the wretch arrested and brought before the Technocourt."
Rex Morris spun on his heel and stalked for the door.
Chapter Eight
Rex Morris had first become aware of the fact that his father was considerably different than most fathers when he was in his early school years. They lived in a small hamlet named Arroyo Seco, fourteen kilometers out of the city of Taos. That in itself was on the non-conformist side, since surely Arroyo Seco was one of the last small hamlets in the Technate of America. With the advent of the high-rise apartments and all the advantage of that type life's efficiency, who would care to be so far out as to live in a single house?
Of course, Leonard Morris, as the ranking bio-chemist of his time, was expected to be a bit unusual. However, it could be carried to the extreme even when one was a Hero of the Technate.
So far back that he couldn't remember, young Rex had fallen into the not unusual youthful curiosity about adult conversation. In fact, he doted upon it. Nothing pleased him more than to sit silently listening to his father and mother at adult talk, covering matters often far beyond his ken.
As he grew older he began to realize that his presence sometimes put a damper on various fascinating subjects and even discovered that they were able to talk over his head, on requirement, using little code words or in-nuendoes he didn't comprehend. It was an irritant to the inquisitive youngster.
But youth isn't as improvident as all that. Leading off the living room cum library of the Morris home was a small chamber which was Rex's own and off-limits to adults, with the sole proviso that he keep it clean himself. Once a month or so his mother looked in to give it a routine check and always found the den spotless. Rex wasn't about to lose his retreat through neglect. The room abounded, of course, with Tri-Di photos of his current sports or entertainment heroes, with bows and arrows, boomerangs, a compressed air rifle, sports equipment of a dozen types, collections of everything from Indian arrowheads to butterflies. It also held a small table to work upon, two folding chairs and an old style army cot.
While he was still in the vicinity of ten years of age, Rex found that if he stationed himself on his cot near the door, stretched out upon it as though he was reading, and left the door open a crack, he could pick up unbeknownst most of the conversation that went on in the large living room. And for a period of years he had a positive addiction to. eavesdropping. His conscience hurt him not at all. Face reality, early youth has no ethical code; that comes later in life—if ever.
Not that he could follow a great deal of what his father said, particularly when he was speaking to colleagues on matters scientific, or sometimes with friends on subjects involving political-economy and current affairs. After his mother passed away, young Rex Morris found that most of his father's conversation was over his head. It was an irritant. Adult talk had always sounded so fascinating!
However, young Rex developed a quirk, an eidetic memory of his father's words; all but total recall. Thus it was, somewhat later in life, he could bring back whole sentences of the older Morris' conversations, arguments and polemics with little effort. -Discussions that had been beyond him, when originally entered into, were more understandable a few years or more later.
One day he had been in his room with the door closed and had been working on a model of a space satellite, deeply concentrating to the point that he hadn't realized that his father had a visitor. Finally, he tossed his tools aside, came to his feet and crossed to the door with the intention of going into the auto-kitchen and dialing himself a sandwich.
His hand on the door, he halted. He could hear his father in the next room, speaking in heat If there was anything that fascinated Rex Morris at the age of ten, it was adults in argument
He left the door open a crack, selected a diagram of plans for model construction, stretched out on the cot and innocently began to study it, one ear cocked.
Leonard Morris was saying, "Of course it was a revolution. It was one of the most basic social revolutions the world has ever seen."
Another voice—Rex recognized it as that of Mike Wheaton, a friend from Taos—demurred. "Revolution is a somewhat controversial word, Leonard. The authorities prefer to think of the establishment of the Technate as evolution, rather than revolution."
The scientist snorted contempt of that. "Controversial words, controversial words! For the love of God, how can a word be controversial? Ideas can be controversial, but words are merely tools to convey ideas. How this confounded tendency ever began, I'll never know. It seems to have started as far back as the middle of the 20th century. All of a sudden terms such as socialist, left, communism, propaganda, Marxism, agitator, revolution, and such became dirty words to which one reacted automatically and negatively without thought You could no longer discuss such subjects because a mental iron curtain went down as soon as the words—not the reality behind them—were used."
Wheaton!s voice came again, unhappily. "Be that as it may, Leonard,, the achievement of the Technate was peaceable and…"
"Who said it wasn't!"
"Well, you used the term revolution."
"A revolution doesn't have to be violent."
There was a silence.
Leonard Morris spoke up again. "A revolution simply means a basic socio-economic change. It may, but it doesn't necessarily involve violence. For instance, what socio-economic system prevailed in England, say, in the 16th century?"
"Why feudalism, I suppose."
"And what socio-economic system did England have by the 19th century?"
The other's voice came hesitantly, "Why, capitalism, I suppose."
"Very well, then when did the revolution take place? Revolution in the sense of the French Revolution or the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia? Or even the American Revolution of 1776?"
"Why, why I don't know."
"It didn't!" the older Morris said triumphantly. "The revolution came about but over a period of time, piece by piece, and so did the establishment of the Technate here in North America. It could have been foreseen a half a century earlier by anyone who cared to pry into the subject."
"Hindsight is always easier," the other said dryly.
Young Rex Morris, in the adjoining room, was getting an earful but only about half of it was understandable at his age. He squirmed, but didn't budge from his vantage point. He had the feeling that his father was winning the debate, but then, Rex was prejudiced.
Leonard Morris was launching full into his subject, now. He said, "Classical capitalism began to fall apart when the primary and secondary occupations fell off and the tertiary and quaternary occupations began to account for the majority of persons employed."
"You miss me there."
The scientist said impatiently, "The primary occupations are those of mining, agriculture, forestry, hunting, fishing. Secondary occupations are those that process the products of primary occupations, and tertiary are those that render services to the first two occupations."
"Well, what in the name of Great Scott are quaternary occupations?"
"Those that render services to tertiary occupations, or to each other. In actuality, that is the type occupation we of the Technician caste now hold down under the Tech-nate. Occupations among the various agencies of government, the professions, the non-profit groups, very top management, higher education, that sort of thing."
"And you think the coming of this type of occupation was a revolutionary change?"
"Of course it was. Under classical capitalism, the en-trepeneur was in charge of his enterprise. He prospered, or fell, according to his own abilities. It was a dog eat dog social system, but, then, most are. They had nicer words for it such as private enterprise, or free enterprise, but it was as ruthless a socio-economic system as has ever come down the pike—until, possible our own arrived."
"Oh now, Leonard."
"I mean it"
"Well, you'd better not let the word get around to the Security Functional Sequence."
"That's one of the reasons I say our society is even more ruthless. At least in most of the Western countries, including our own, you had freedom of speech and the press in the old days. You could say anything you damn well pleased. Most certainly you could in the privacy of your home."
"Well,"—the other was uncomfortable again—"back to this so-called revolution."
"It began, I suppose, about the time of the Second World War. Corporations became so large that individuals were no longer competent to run them, in the sense that Henry Ford was once absolute dictator of his industry, or John D. Rockerfeller his. They called it the Managerial Revolution, sometimes the New Industrial State. Over in England, an economist called it the rise of Meritocracy. In short, a new group emerged that managed and controlled industry but didn't own it The old rich, who did own it, in spite of soaring inheritance, income and corporation taxes, through their domination of stock, were no longer a necessary element in society, and were rapidly losing power.
Rex Morris, still all ears, didn't understand that but he was becoming aware of the fact that his father's words didn't exactly conform with what he was already learning in school. He was becoming vaguely apprehensive. Leonard Morris shouldn't be talking this way—even to an old friend such as Mike Wheaton whom Rex has in youthful perceptiveness decided was a bit on the pompous side.
The scientist was saying, "The Meritocracy took over as the corporations became ever larger. By the middle of the 20th century two hundred corporations produced half of all the goods and services that were annually available in the United States and held two thirds of all assets involved in manufacturing. The fifty largest held over a third of all such assets. And only three, Standard Oil of New Jersey, General Motors and Ford had more gross income than all the farms in the country combined. The revenues of General Motors alone were eight times those of the State of New York, and slightly less than one fifth those of the Federal government
"And this was just the beginning. Every year that went by saw the merging of these largest corporations, until, finally, for all practical purposes all industry and services were in the hands of a handful of super-corporations and they, in turn, in the hands of the Meritocracy, if you wish to call it that"
"You call that a revolution?" Wheaton scoffed.
"Yes. Or, at least, eventually it grew into one. At the same time, the government, with its own type of Meritocracy—I'm talking about the real government, the career officials, not the often nincompoops elected ones—was taking over an increasing amount of direction of the economy. Education, relief, polution control, husbanding of national resources, medicine, were taken out of the hands of local government and local enterprise. In a matter of a few decades, we found that the Federal government and the giant corporations were in complete control of the economy, and both were in the hands of the New Class, if you want to call them that—the Meritocracy, those who achieved to their position of power through their ability, not through the inheritance of wealth or status. It didn't take long for the Technate to evolve."
Wheaton was still argumentive. "All right, if you want to call it a revolution. I guess it's largely a matter of definitions. However, I got the original opinion that you opposed our present way of doing things. From the way you sound now, you're all in favor of it."
There was amusement in Leonard Morris' voice now. "Oh, there's not much point in opposing history. It's too late to change it My big point is, it's time now for another revolution."
"What!" his friend gasped. "Are you insane, saying things like that?"
But Leonard Morris often said things like that, as young Rex increasingly discovered. And as he grew older it increasingly distressed and worried him. He had his books and his teachers to instruct him on the real state of affairs and what had happened in the past that had eventually led to this best of all possible worlds.
In his early years he had been a loner, that is, so far as his fellow youngsters of the Technician caste were concerned. He had never been keen on spectator sports; watching others exercise for hours on end while he sat inactive, bored him. Nor did he, himself, particularly like to participate in kicking or throwing a ball about a field.
Happily for him, his father's home bordered on the Taos Pueblo National Monument, the sole remaining Indian reserve which preserved the way of life the Amerinds had enjoyed before the coming of the white man. Or, at least, it pretended to. Hundreds of thousands of gaping tourists came annually to observe the five-story-high adobe pueblo, to gawk at the kivas which they were not allowed to enter, to stare at the stoic face, blanket wearing, Taos tribesmen, with their long braided hair, as they had been stared at when Coronado's men first appeared on the scene, only twenty years after Cortes had stormed Mexico-Tenochtidan and overthrew the Aztec power.
In actuality, most of the tribesmen had their homes in one of the two high-rise apartment buildings in the city of Taos, a few miles from the old pueblo. They com-muted daily, changed their clothes to their pseudo-Indian trappings, and went into the Redman act, which included such items as keeping track of the small buffalo herd, ceremonial dances and pow-wows in the kivas. Rex Morris soon came to know that the Taos Indians were secretly in contempt of the whole show, but, of course, Rex was "in." His father was well known by the Taos tribesmen to have conquered the virus diseases and to be a medicine man beyond compare. He had been made an honorary member of the tribe. In spite of the fact that he had been awarded practically every international scientific honor available in his field, he had gone through the primitive ceremony with complete dignity.
So it was that Rex was free to ride the semi-wild Indian mustangs, to explore and hunt in the Twining Mountain area, to camp out in the Sangre de Cristos, to fish in streams usually barred to whites. It was a way of life largely disappeared in the Technate of North America.
And largely his companions were the Indian lads of the pueblo tribe of his own age, rather than the Technician caste boys in town. In actuality, the Indians had no standing in Technate society, in view of their status as wards of the government but it was fairly early in life that it was brought home to Rex Morris through teachers and youthful white contemporaries that had the Indians belonged, as did everybody else, they would undoubtedly have ranked in the effective caste. At most, a few might have made it to engineer status but certainly none among them, even the chiefs, would have been technicians.
Riding over the prairies behind the pueblo proper, Rex Morris couldn't have cared less as he thrilled to the pursuit of a jackrabbit, armed with primitive bow and arrow and egged on by the shrilling whoops of his half naked Indian friends.
But that was, before he became fully aware of his father's unorthodoxy.
It was several years after he had eavesdropped on the argument with Mjke Wheaton that the conversation came back to him. The situation was in many ways identical.
Three prominent scientists, all bearing the honorary rank of Technician, had come from the East to consult his father. Rex had been introduced to them, had suffered the usual banalities directed at youth by adults, and had shortly retired to his den to study. He could have remained but obviously the talk was going to be completely over his head.
He had stretched out on his cot with a biography of Howard Scott, the pioneer Technocrat, but found it difficult to concentrate due to the hum of voices in the next room. Finally, he put the book down in disgust and opened the door a crack.
