Eric Donovan 2031

: The Crowded Earth

Eric was glad to get to the office and shut the door. Lately he'd had

this feeling whenever he went out, this feeling that people were

staring at him. It wasn't just his imagination: they did stare. Every

younger person over a yard high got stared at nowadays, as if they

were freaks. And it wasn't just the staring that got him down, either.



Sometimes they muttered and mumbled, and sometimes they called names.
/> Eric didn't mind stuff like "dirty Naturalist." That he could

understand--once upon a time, way back, everybody who was against the

Leff Law was called a Naturalist. And before that it had still another

meaning, or so he'd been told. Today, of course, it just meant anyone

who was over five feet tall.



No, he could take the ordinary name-calling, all right. But sometimes

they said other things. They used words nobody ever uses unless they

really hate you, want to kill you. And that was at the bottom of it,

Eric knew. They did hate him, they did want to kill him.



Was he a coward? Perhaps. But it wasn't just Eric's imagination. You

never saw anything about such things on the telescreens, but

Naturalists were being killed every day. The older people were still

in the majority, but the youngsters were coming up fast. And there

were so many more of them. Besides, they were more active, and this

created the illusion that there were Yardsticks everywhere.



Eric sat down behind his desk, grinning. Yardsticks. When he was a

kid it had been just the other way around. He and the rest of them who

didn't get shots in those early days considered themselves to be the

normal ones. And they did the name-calling. Names like "runt" and

"half-pint" and "midgie." But the most common name was the one that

stuck--Yardstick. That used to be the worst insult of all.



But now it wasn't an insult any more. Being taller was the insult.

Being a dirty Naturalist or a son-of-a-Naturalist. Times certainly had

changed.



Eric glanced at the communicator. Almost noon, and it had not flicked

yet. Here he'd been beaming these big offers, you'd think he'd get

some response to an expensive beaming program, but no. Maybe that was

the trouble--nobody liked big things any more. Everything was small.



He shifted uneasily in his chair. That was one consolation, at least;

he still had old-time furniture. Getting to be harder and harder to

find stuff that fitted him these days. Seemed like most of the firms

making furniture and bedding and household appliances were turning out

the small stuff for the younger generation. Cheaper to make, less

material, and more demand for it. Government allocated size priorities

to the manufacturers.



It was even murder to ride public transportation because of the

space-reductions. Eric drove his own jetter. Besides, that way was

safer. Crowded into a liner with a gang of Yardsticks, with only a few

other Naturalists around, there might be trouble.



Oh, it was getting to be a Yardstick world, and no mistake. Smaller

furniture, smaller meals, smaller sizes in clothing, smaller

buildings--



That reminded Eric of something and he frowned again. Dammit, why

didn't the communicator flick? He should be getting some kind of

inquiries. Hell, he was practically giving the space away!



But there was only silence, as there had been all during this past

week. That's why he let Lorette go. Sweet girl, but there was no work

for her here any more. No work, and no pay, either. Besides, the place

spooked her. She'd been the one who suggested leaving, really.



"Eric, I'm sorry, but I just can't take this any more. All alone in

this huge building--it's curling my toes!"



At first he tried to talk her out of it. "Don't be silly, luscious!

There's Bernstein, down on ten, and Saltonstall above us, and Wallaby

and Son on fourteen, I tell you, this place is coming back to life, I

can feel it! I'll beam for tenants next week, you'll see--"



Actually he'd been talking against his own fear and Lorette must have

known it. Anyway, she left. And now he was here alone.



Alone.



Eric didn't like the sound of that word. Or the absence of sound

behind it. Three other tenants in a ninety-story building. Three other

tenants in a place that had once held three thousand. Why, fifty years

ago, when this place went up, you couldn't buy a vacancy. Where had

the crowds gone to?



He knew the answer, of course. The Leff shots had created the new

generation of Yardsticks, and they lived in their own world. Their

shrunken, dehydrated world of doll-houses and miniatures. They'd

deserted the old-fashioned skyscrapers and cut the big apartment

buildings up into tiny cubicles; two could occupy the space formerly

reserved for one.



That had been the purpose of the Leff shots in the first place--to put

an end to overcrowding and conserve on resources. Well, it had worked

out. Worked out too perfectly for people like Eric Donovan. Eric

Donovan, rental agent for a building nobody wanted any more; a

ninety-storey mausoleum. And nobody could collect rent from ghosts.



Ghosts.



Eric damned near jumped through the ceiling when the door opened and

this man walked in. He was tall and towheaded. Eric stared; there was

something vaguely familiar about his face. Something about those ears,

that was it, those ears. No, it couldn't be, it wasn't possible--



Eric stood up and held out his hand. "I'm Donovan," he said.



The towheaded man smiled and nodded. "Yes, I know. Don't you remember

me?"



"I thought I knew you from someplace. You wouldn't be--Sam Wolzek?"



The towheaded man's smile became a broad grin. "That's not what you

were going to say, Eric. You were going to say 'Handle-head,' weren't

you? Well, go on, say it. I don't mind. I've been called a lot worse

things since we were kids together."



"I can't believe it," Eric murmured. "It's really you! Old Handle-head

Wolzek! And after all these years, turning up to rent an office from

me. Well, what do you know!"



"I didn't come here to rent an office."



"Oh? Then--"



"It was your name that brought me. I recognized it on the beamings."



"Then this is a social call, eh? Well, that's good. I don't get much

company these days. Sit down, have a reef."



Wolzek sat down but refused the smoke. "I know quite a bit about your

setup," he said. "You and your three tenants. It's tough, Eric."



"Oh, things could be worse." Eric forced a laugh. "It isn't as if my

bucks depended on the number of tenants in the building. Government

subsidizes this place. I'm sure of a job as long as I live."



"As long as you live." Wolzek stared at him in a way he didn't like.

"And just how long do you figure that to be?"



"I'm only twenty-six," Eric answered. "According to statistics, that

gives me maybe another sixty years."



"Statistics!" Wolzek said it like a dirty word. "Your life-expectancy

isn't determined by statistics any more. I say you don't have sixty

months left. Perhaps not even sixty days."



"What are you trying to hand me?"



"The truth. And don't go looking for a silver platter underneath it,

either."



"But I mind my own business. I don't hurt anybody. Why should I be in

any danger?"



"Why does a government subsidy support one rental manager to sit here

in this building every day--but ten guards to patrol it every night?"



Eric opened his mouth wide before shaping it for speech. "Who told you

that?"



"Like I said, I know the setup." Wolzek crossed his legs, but he

didn't lean back. "And in case you haven't guessed it, this is a

business call, not a social one."



Eric sighed. "Might have figured," he said. "You're a Naturalist,

aren't you?"



"Of course I am. We all are."



"Not I."



"Oh yes--whether you like it or not, you're a Naturalist, too. As far

as the Yardsticks are concerned, everyone over three feet high is a

Naturalist. An enemy. Someone to be hated, and destroyed."



"Think I'd believe that? Sure, I know they don't like us, and why

should they? We eat twice as much, take up twice the space, and I

guess when we were kids we gave a lot of them a hard time. Besides,

outside of a few exceptions like ourselves, all the younger generation

are Yardsticks, with more coming every year. The older people hold

the key positions and the power. Of course there's a lot of friction

and resentment. But you know all that."



"Certainly." Wolzek nodded. "All that and more. Much more. I know that

up until a few years ago, no Yardstick held any public office or

government position. Now they're starting to move in, particularly in

Europasia. But there's so many of them now--adults, in their early

twenties--that the pressure is building up. They're impatient, getting

out of hand. They won't wait until the old folks die off. They want

control now. And if they ever manage to get it, we're finished for

good."



"Impossible!" Eric said.



"Impossible?" Wolzek's voice was a mocking echo. "You sit here in this

tomb and when somebody tells you that the world you know has died, you

refuse to believe it. Even though every night, after you sneak home

and huddle up inside your room trying not to be noticed, ten guards

patrol this place with subatomics, so the Yardstick gangs won't break

in and take over. So they won't do what they did down south--overrun

the office buildings and the factories and break them up, cut them

down to size for living quarters."



"But they were stopped," Eric objected. "I saw it on the telescreen,

the security forces stopped them--"



"Crapola!" Wolzek pronounced the archaicism with studied care. "You

saw films. Faked films. Have you ever traveled, Eric? Ever been down

south and seen conditions there?"



"Nobody travels nowadays. You know that. Priorities."



"I travel, Eric. And I know. Security forces don't suppress anything

in the south these days. Because they're made up of Yardsticks now;

that's right, Yardsticks exclusively. And in a few years that's the

way it will be up here. Did you ever hear about the Chicagee riots?"



"You mean last year, when the Yardsticks tried to take over the

synthetic plants at the Stockyards?"



"Tried? They succeeded. The workers ousted management. Over fifty

thousand were killed in the revolution--oh, don't look so shocked,

that's the right word for it!--but the Yardsticks won out in the end."



"But the telescreen showed--"



"Damn the telescreen! I know because I happened to be there when it

happened. And if you had been there, you and a few million other

ostriches who sit with your heads buried in telescreens, maybe we

could have stopped them."



"I don't believe it. I can't!"



"All right. Think back. That was last year. And since the first of

this year, what's happened to the standard size meat-ration?"



"They cut it in half," Eric admitted. "But that's because of Ag

shortages, according to the telescreen reports--" He stood up,

gulping. "Look here, I'm not going to listen to any more of this kind

of talk. By rights, I ought to turn your name in."



"Go ahead." Wolzek waved his hand. "It's happened before. I was

reported when I blasted the Yardsticks who shot my father down when he

tried to land his jet in a southern field. I was reported when they

killed Annette."



"Annette?"



"You remember that name, don't you, Eric? Your first girl, wasn't she?

Well, I'm the guy who married her. Yes, and I'm the guy who talked her

into having a baby without the benefit of Leff shots. Sure, it's

illegal, and only a few of us ever try it any more, but we both agreed

that we wanted it that way. A real, life-sized, normal baby. Or

abnormal, according to the Yardsticks and the stupid government.



"It was a dirty scum of a government doctor who let her die on the

table when he discovered the child weighed seven pounds. That's when I

really woke up, Eric. That's when I knew there was going to be only

one decision to make in the future--kill or be killed."



"Annette. She died, you say?"



Wolzek moved over and put his hand on Eric's shoulder. "You never

married, did you, Eric? I think I know why. It's because you felt the

way I did about it. You wanted a regular kid, not a Yardstick. Only

you didn't quite have the guts to try and beat the law. Well, you'll

need guts now, because it's getting to the point where the law can't

protect you any more. The government is made up of old men, and

they're afraid to take action. In a few years they'll be pushed out of

office all over the world. We'll have Yardstick government then, all

the way, and Yardstick law. And that means they'll cut us down to

size."



"But what can you--we--do about it?"



"Plenty. There's still a little time. If we Naturalists can only get

together, stop being just a name and become an organized force, maybe

the ending will be different. We've got to try, in any case."



"The Yardsticks are human beings, just like us," Eric said, slowly.

"We can't just declare war on them, wipe them out. It's not their

fault they were born that way."



Wolzek nodded. "I know. Nothing is anybody's fault, really. This whole

business began in good faith. Leffingwell and some of the other

geniuses saw a problem and offered what they sincerely believed was a

solution."



"But it didn't work," Eric murmured.



"Wrong. It worked only too well. That's the trouble. Sure, we

eliminated our difficulties on the physical level. In less than thirty

years we've reached a point where there's no longer any danger of

overcrowding or starvation. But the psychological factor is something

we can't cope with. We thought we'd ended war and the possibilities of

war a long time ago. But it isn't foreign enemies we must fear today.

We've created a nation divided into Davids and Goliaths--and David and

Goliath are always enemies."



"David killed Goliath," Eric said. "Does that mean we're going to

die?"



"Only if we're as stupid as Goliath was. Only if we wear our

telescreens like invincible armor and pay no attention to the

slingshot in David's hands."



Eric lit a reef. "All right," he said. "You don't have to lecture. I'm

willing to join. But I'm no Goliath, really. I never had a fight in my

life. What could I do to help?"



"You're a rental agent. You have the keys to this building. The guards

don't bother you by day, do they? You come and go as you please. That

means you can get into the cellars. You can help us move the stuff

down there. And we'll take care of the guards some night, after that."



"I don't understand."



The friendly pressure on Eric's shoulder became a fierce grip. "You

don't have to understand. All you do is let us plant the stuff in the

cellars and let us get rid of the guards afterwards in our own way.

The Yardsticks will do the rest."



"You mean, take over the building when it's not protected?"



"Of course. They'll take it over completely, once they see there's no

opposition. And they'll remodel it to suit themselves, and within a

month there'll be ten thousand Yardsticks sitting in this place."



"The government will never stand still for that."



"Wake up! It's happening all over, all the time, and nothing is being

done to prevent it. Security is too weak and officials are too timid

to risk open warfare. So the Yardsticks win, and I'm going to see that

they win this place."



"But how will that help us?"



"You don't see it yet, do you? And neither will the Yardsticks. Until,

some fine day three or four months from now, we get around to what

will be planted in the cellars. Somebody will throw a switch, miles

away, and--boom!"



"Wolzek, you couldn't--"



"It's coming. Not only here, but in fifty other places. We've got to

fight fire with fire, Eric. It's our only chance. Bring this thing out

into the open. Make the government realize this is war. Civil war.

That's the only way to force them to take real action. We can't do it

any other way; it's illegal to organize politically, and petitions do

no good. We can't get a hearing. Well, they'll have to listen to the

explosions."



"I just don't know--"



"Maybe you're the one who should have married Annette after all."

Wolzek's voice was cold. "Maybe you could have watched her, watched

her scream and beg and die, and never wanted to move a muscle to do

anything about it afterwards. Maybe you're the model citizen, Eric;

you and the thousands of others who are standing by and letting the

Yardsticks chop us down, one by one. They say in Nature it's the

survival of the fittest. Well, perhaps you're not fit to survive."



Eric wasn't listening. "She screamed," he said. "You heard her

scream?"



Wolzek nodded. "I can still hear her. I'll always hear her."



"Yes." Eric blinked abruptly. "When do we start?"



Wolzek smiled at him. It was a pretty good smile for a man who can

always hear screaming. "I knew I could count on you," he murmured.

"Nothing like old friends."



"Funny, isn't it?" Eric tried to match his smile. "The way things work

out. You and I being kids together. You marrying my girl. And then, us

meeting up again this way."



"Yes," said Wolzek, and he wasn't smiling now. "I guess it's a small

world."



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