A Chance Strain From Grieg

: The Chamber Of Life

I recalled waking up in another place, on a long slope of green hill

that overlooked a valley. It was dawn again. The sun was just rising

over the crest of the hill behind me, and it threw long shadows across

the grass from the tall, slender trees along the summit. Down in the

valley a broad, clean river of clear water followed the curve of the

hill until it disappeared from sight. There were other hills beyond the

riv r, all with the same long, simple slope of grass; and, beyond the

hills, there were the tops of blue mountains, swathed in white morning

mist.



It was a strange place. Its strangeness consisted in a subtle appearance

of order and care, as though a gardener or an army of gardeners had

arranged and tended the whole vast sweep of landscape for years. It was

uncultivated and deserted as waste land, but as well trimmed, in spite

of its spaciousness, as a lawn.



The morning was very warm. I was not conscious of any chill in the air.

I was clothed only in short trousers, such as athletes wear, and a short

belted tunic without sleeves and loose--both of them indescribably soft

and comfortable.



I was aware of the strangeness of my awakening, but I seemed to have no

definite recollection of falling asleep. I felt that I had come there

during my sleep under unusual circumstances and from a very different

life, but the thought didn't disturb me or trouble my mind in any way.

My chief emotion was a curious feeling of expectancy. I knew that I was

about to have some new and curious experience, something not trivial,

and I was eager to meet it.



I lay there for awhile, drinking in the beauty of the morning, and

breathing an air of miraculous purity and freshness. Finally I stood up,

light and conscious of a sudden grace, aware for the first time, in its

departure, of the awkwardness and weight which ordinarily attend our

movements on earth. It was as if some of the earth's gravity had been

lost.



For a while I examined the valley, but I saw no sign of life there. Then

I turned and went slowly up the hill, the sunlight falling warmly on my

body, and my feet sinking sensuously in the deep grass.



* * * * *



When I came to the crest and looked over, I saw another valley before

me, deeper than the first. The hill rolled away, down and down for

miles, to a long, wide plain. More hills rose from the plain on every

side, as simply as if they had been built there by the hand of some

gigantic child playing in a wilderness of sand. And the river, coming

around the base of the hill on which I was standing, but several miles

away, swept out upon a great aqueduct of stone, hundreds of feet high,

which crossed the plain through its very center, a straight line of

breath-taking beauty, and disappeared far away into the pass between two

mountains. The whole scene was too perfect to be wholly natural.



At the center of the plain stood a tall, white building. Even in the

distance from which I viewed it, it looked massive--larger than any

skyscraper I had ever seen. But it was delicately and intricately

designed, terraced much as most modern office buildings in New York are

terraced, but more elaborately. Its base stood about the aqueduct, which

passed through it, and it swept up magnificently to a slender peak

almost level with the crest of the hill where I was standing. It was the

only building in sight.



I don't know how long I stood there, admiring the clean sweep and

vastness of the scene, before I saw something rise sharply, with a

flashing of bright wings, from some hidden courtyard or terrace of the

building. It was followed closely by another and then another, like a

flight of birds. They shot up swiftly, circled once or twice, and moved

away in different directions, straight and purposeful. One of them came

toward my hill.



* * * * *



It was only a few moments before the thing sped up to me and swooped

down as I waved my arms. It was, of course, a machine, slender and long,

with wide arching wings. It seemed almost light enough to float. It had

a deck, shielded from the wind by a shimmering transparent thing like a

thin wire screen, and under the deck a cabin made, it seemed, of glass.

A man and a woman stood on the deck, the woman handling the controls.

They were both dressed much like myself.



The machine came to rest on the hill near me. I stepped forward, and the

man leaped down to meet me. His first greeting was curious.



"So you are here," he said. His voice was small but cool, penetrating

and metallic. I thought of fine steel wires. And, when I replied, my own

voice had something of the same quality.



"Were you expecting me?" I said. He nodded, shaking my hand briefly and

quietly.



"We know all about you," he answered. I was pleased--it made things

simpler--but I wanted to ask him who I was. I didn't remember anything

up to the moment of my awakening on the other side of the hill. Instead,

I asked him:



"Shall I go aboard?" He nodded again, and waved his hand toward the

ladder. I went aboard lithely, and he followed. The girl and I glanced

at each other; I was surprised and rather disturbed by her beauty and

cleanness of body. I turned to the man, a little embarrassed, as she

manipulated some controls and set the ship in motion again.



"You'll have to forgive me," I said. "Something has happened, and I

don't know things. I've completely lost my memory."



They understood at once.



"Your name is Baret." He pronounced it oddly. "I am Edvar, and this girl

is Selda." We all looked at each other intently, and I went on

hesitantly.



"I don't know where I am. Can you tell me something about myself?" Edvar

shook his head.



"Only this," he said, "that we were notified of your presence and your

name. This city is Richmond." I glanced about quickly.



"Richmond!" I exclaimed. "Virginia?" But he shook his head.



"I don't understand you," he replied.



I went on, with a puzzled frown. "It has changed...." Both of them

looked at me curiously.



"How has it changed, Baret?" the girl, Selda, asked me. I glanced at her

absently and closed my eyes.



"Why ... I don't know," I stammered, "I don't remember." For a few

moments there was silence, except for the shouting of the wind past our

ship. Then Selda asked me another question.



"Where are you from?" I shook my head helplessly, and answered again, "I

don't know--I don't remember."



* * * * *



A moment later we dipped into the shadow of the building, which they

called Richmond. We slipped by a succession of vast and intricate

facades until we came to a court-like terrace, hundreds of feet above

the ground and sheltered on three sides by walls that leaped up toward

the sky for hundreds of feet more. The effect of height was dizzying and

magnificent.



Selda brought the ship to a quick and graceful landing. I found that we

were in a large paved court like a public square, facing the east and

the sun, which bathed it in cool bright light. It was still early in the

morning. Innumerable windows looked down upon us, and a number of

doorways led into the building on all sides. From one of these a girl

stepped forward. Edvar spoke to her, evidently reporting himself and

Selda. The girl pushed several buttons on a small cabinet which hung

from her shoulder. It rang, low and silvery, twice. Then she pointed to

me.



"Who is that?" she asked.



"His name is Baret," Edvar told her. "I was sent to meet him."



"But where is he from? He is not registered."



"We don't know. It's an unusual circumstance," he explained, while the

girl examined us all carefully. "Very well," she said finally, "you must

attend him until he is registered. I'll notify Odom." Edvar nodded, and

we turned away.



Glancing back as we crossed the court, I saw the ship descending

noiselessly, on the square of pavement where it had landed, into the

depths of the building, while the girl made other gestures with her

little cabinet. Then we passed through a doorway into the subdued glow

of artificial lighting.



"Why was she so worried?" I asked Edvar. "I don't understand anything,

you know."



"You were not registered," he said. "We are all registered, of course,

in our own cities. The authorities know where to find us at any moment

of the day during our routine. If we leave the city, or depart from our

usual program, naturally we note down where we are going, registering

ourselves upon our departure and upon our return. If we visit another

city, our arrival there is expected and reported here, as well as our

departure."



"Is all that necessary?" I asked him. "Is there a war, perhaps?"



"No," he said, "it's customary. It prevents confusion. Everything we do

is recorded. This conversation, for instance, is being recorded in the

telepathic laboratory at this moment--each of us has a record there.

They are open to the public at any time. It makes dishonor impossible."



We paused at a doorway, and Edvar spoke a word. It opened noiselessly

and we went into his apartment.



"We are assigned to you this morning," Edvar said. "We are at your

service."



* * * * *



The apartment was hardly very different from what I had unconsciously

expected. It seemed to have two rooms and a bath. The room we entered

was a sort of study. It was hung with drapes closely woven from some

light metal, with cold designs that were suggestive of mechanical,

mathematic conceptions, but inspiring in much the way that the lines of

the building were inspiring. There were no pictures and no mirrors. All

the furniture was made in straight lines, of metal, and somewhat

futuristic in design. The chairs, however, were deep and comfortable,

although the yielding upholstery appeared at first sight hard and

brittle as metal sheets. The room was perfectly bare, and the color

scheme a dull silver and black. To me it seemed extremely somber, but it

pleased Edvar and his companion.



The first thing I noted when we sat down was the absence of any small

articles--books or papers or lamps--and I remarked on this, somewhat

rudely perhaps, to Edvar.



"Whatever you wish is accessible," he explained with a smile. He rose

and went to the draped wall. Drawing back the folds of the curtains in

several places, he showed the metal wall covered with dials and

apparatus. I noted especially a small screen, like a motion picture

screen. Later I was to find that it served not only for amusement,

showing sound-pictures projected automatically from a central office,

but also for news and for communication, like a telephone.



"Would you care for breakfast?" Edvar asked me. I accepted eagerly, and

he manipulated some dials on the wall. A moment or two later a small

section of the wall opened, and a tray appeared. Edvar placed it on the

table by my chair.



"We have had our breakfast," he explained, and I began to eat with a

keener appetite than I thought I had. It was a simple meal with a

slightly exotic flavor, but without any strange dishes. During the

course of it, I asked Edvar questions.



"Your life is amazingly centralized," I said. "Apparently all the things

you need are supplied at your rooms on a moment's notice."



"Yes," he smiled, "it makes life simpler. We have very few needs. Many

of them are satisfied while we sleep, such as cleansing and, if we like,

nourishment. We can study while we sleep, acquiring facts that we may

want to use later from an instrument which acts upon the subconscious

mind. These dials you see are mainly to give us pleasure. If we care to

have our meals served in the old-fashioned way, as you are having yours,

we can do so, but we reserve those meals for the occasions when we feel

the need of eating as a pure sensation. We can have music at any time--"

He paused. "Would you care for some music?"



"There's nothing I'd like better," I told him. He went to the wall and

turned the dials again. In a moment the room was filled with the subdued

sound of a cool, melancholy music--Grieg, or some other composer, with

whom I was unfamiliar, exotic and reminiscent in mood, cool, and quiet

with a touch of acutely sweet pain. I listened to it in silence for a

while. It was so subtle and pervasive, however, that it seemed to play

directly upon the subconscious mind, so that the listener could go on

thinking and talking uninterruptedly without losing any of the feeling

of the melody.



* * * * *



"Have you no private possessions?" I asked. "Things that you share with

no one? Your own books, your own music, your own jewelry, perhaps?"



"We have no need of them," he replied. After a moment's thought, he

added, "We have our own emotions, and our own work--that's all. We do

not care for jewels, or for decoration for its own sake. The things we

use and see daily are beautiful in themselves, through their perfect

utility and their outward symbolism of utility and creation. Our tools

and our furniture are beautiful according to our own conceptions of

beauty--as you can see." He made a gesture about the room.



"And who serves you with those meals, and the music, and the knowledge

you learn in your sleep? Who does the work?"



"We all do the work. Each of us has his own work. Each of us is a

craftsman and a creative artist. The real work is done by machine--our

machines are the basic structure of our life. But we have men, highly

trained and fitted temperamentally for their professions, who watch and

direct the machines. It is a matter of a few hours a day, devoted to

fine problems in mechanics or building or invention. The rest of our

time is our own, and the machines go on moving automatically as we have

directed them to move. If every man on earth should die this morning, it

would be perhaps fifty years or a century before the last machine

stopped turning."



"And the rest of the time?"



It was Selda who answered this time. "We live. We devote ourselves to

learning and creative thought. We study human relations, or we wander

through the forests and the mountains, increasing the breadth and

significance of our minds and emotions." Selda's voice, rising suddenly

after her long silence, startled me, and I looked at her, disturbed

again by some subtle attraction exercised over me by her body. We were

silent a while, then I relapsed into my inner questionings, and turned

to Edvar.



"You must live under a sort of socialistic system," I said thoughtfully.

"Even a sort of communism?"



"In a sense. Rather it is an automatic life. The soul of the machine

pervades us all, and the machines are beautiful. Our lives are logically

and inevitably directed by environment and heredity just as the

machines are inevitably directed by their functions and capabilities.

When a child is born, we know already what he will do throughout his

life, how long he will live, what sort of children he will have, the

woman he will marry. The Bureau could tell you at this moment when my

great-grandson will be born, when he will die, and what his life will do

for the State. There are never any accidents in our lives."



* * * * *



"But how did you develop so highly technical a civilization?" I asked.



"We came to it gradually from the last government system. It was called

the phrenarchic system--the rule of the mind. It was neither democracy

nor monarchy nor dictatorship. We found that we could tell the

temperament and characteristics of a child from his early years, and we

trained certain children for government. They were given power according

to the qualities of their minds and according to the tasks for which

they were fitted. We even bred them for governing. Later, when the

machine began to usurp the place of labor all over the world and gave

men freedom and peace and beauty, the task of government dwindled away

little by little, and the phrenarchs turned gradually to other

occupations."



* * * * *



I learned innumerable details of that life from Edvar, and occasionally

Selda would add some fact. They are not important now. It is the

narrative which I must tell, not the details of a social system which,

as I would discover later, was purely hypothetical.



The three of us spent the morning in conversation there, until the

entrance of another man I had not seen before. He came in without

knocking, but Edvar and Selda did not seem to be surprised. He was the

representative of the Bureau.



"You are Baret?" he said, looking at me keenly.



"Yes," I replied.



"I have been directed to tell you that your visit here is temporary, and

that you will be returned to your previous life at the end of a certain

period of time which we have not yet calculated precisely. You have been

registered with the Bureau, and you are free to come and go as you see

fit, but you are not to interfere with anything you see. You are an

observer. You will be expected to comply with our methods of living as

Edvar or Selda will explain them to you."



With a slight bow, he turned to go. But I detained him.



"Wait," I said. "Can you tell me who I am, and where I've come from?"



"We are not yet certain. Our knowledge of you has come to us in an

unusual manner, through a series of new experiments now being conducted

at the Bureau. If possible, we will explain them to you later. In any

case you may be assured that your absence from your usual life will not

cause you any harm, and that you will return after a definite time. Rest

here, and keep your mind at peace. You will be safe."



Then he turned and left. I was puzzled for a while, but I forgot that

shortly in the strangeness and wonder of the life I was living in a

strange world....



* * * * *



And the lake? Melbourne?



The Grieg nocturne came to an end. I frowned as I set down my razor, and

went into the living room to change the record. Conflicting memories ...

where did they meet? On the one hand was the awakening in the cold

waters of the lake--only an hour or less than an hour ago. And there was

Melbourne, and the strange conversation at the Club. Finally there was

this amazing and isolated recollection, like a passage from a dream.



Suddenly, as I went back to my bath and plunged into the cool water, my

mind returned to Melbourne. I had been walking home with him that night

from the Club--perhaps last night. We had gone on a while in silence,

both of us thinking. Then we had come to the Drive. At that moment

Melbourne had said something--what was it?



He had said, "Tell me, Mr. Barrett, would you care to see that dream of

yours come true?"