Harry Collins 1997

: The Crowded Earth

The telescreen lit up promptly at eight a.m. Smiling Brad came on with

his usual greeting. "Good morning--it's a beautiful day in Chicagee!"



Harry Collins rolled over and twitched off the receiver. "This I

doubt," he muttered. He sat up and reached into the closet for his

clothing.



Visitors--particularly feminine ones--were always exclaiming over the

advantages of Harry's apartment. "So conv nient," they would say.

"Everything handy, right within reach. And think of all the extra

steps you save!"



Of course most of them were just being polite and trying to cheer

Harry up. They knew damned well that he wasn't living in one room

through any choice of his own. The Housing Act was something you just

couldn't get around; not in Chicagee these days. A bachelor was

entitled to one room--no more and no less. And even though Harry was

making a speedy buck at the agency, he couldn't hope to beat the

regulations.



There was only one way to beat them and that was to get married.

Marriage would automatically entitle him to two rooms--if he could

find them someplace.



More than a few of his feminine visitors had hinted at just that, but

Harry didn't respond. Marriage was no solution, the way he figured it.

He knew that he couldn't hope to locate a two-room apartment any

closer than eighty miles away. It was bad enough driving forty miles

to and from work every morning and night without doubling the

distance. If he did find a bigger place, that would mean a three-hour

trip each way on one of the commutrains, and the commutrains were

murder. The Black Hole of Calcutta, on wheels.



But then, everything was murder, Harry reflected, as he stepped from

the toilet to the sink, from the sink to the stove, from the stove to

the table.



Powdered eggs for breakfast. That was murder, too. But it was a fast,

cheap meal, easy to prepare, and the ingredients didn't waste a lot of

storage space. The only trouble was, he hated the way they tasted.

Harry wished he had time to eat his breakfasts in a restaurant. He

could afford the price, but he couldn't afford to wait in line more

than a half-hour or so. His office schedule at the agency started

promptly at ten-thirty. And he didn't get out until three-thirty; it

was a long, hard five-hour day. Sometimes he wished he worked in the

New Philly area, where a four-hour day was the rule. But he supposed

that wouldn't mean any real saving in time, because he'd have to live

further out. What was the population in New Philly now? Something like

63,000,000, wasn't it? Chicagee was much smaller--only 38,000,000,

this year.



This year. Harry shook his head and took a gulp of the Instantea.

Yes, this year the population was 38,000,000, and the boundaries of

the community extended north to what used to be the old Milwaukee and

south past Gary. What would it be like next year, and the year

following?



Lately that question had begun to haunt Harry. He couldn't quite

figure out why. After all, it was none of his business, really. He had

a good job, security, a nice place just two hours from the Loop. He

even drove his own car. What more could he ask?



And why did he have to start the day like this, with a blinding

headache?



Harry finished his Instantea and considered the matter. Yes, it was

beginning again, just as it had on almost every morning for the past

month. He'd sit down at the table, eat his usual breakfast, and end up

with a headache. Why?



It wasn't the food; for a while he'd deliberately varied his diet, but

that didn't make any difference. And he'd had his usual monthly

checkup not more than ten days ago, only to be assured there was

nothing wrong with him. Still, the headaches persisted. Every morning,

when he'd sit down and jerk his head to the left like this--



That was it. Jerking his head to the left. It always seemed to trigger

the pain. But why? And where had he picked up this habit of jerking

his head to the left?



Harry didn't know.



He glanced at his watch. It was almost nine, now. High time that he

got started. He reached over to the interapartment video and dialled

the garage downstairs.



"Bill," he said. "Can you bring my car around to Number Three?"



The tiny face in the hand-screen grinned sheepishly. "Mr. Collins,

ain't it? Gee, I'm sorry, Mr. Collins. Night crew took on a new man,

he must have futzed around with the lists, and I can't find your

number."



Harry sighed. "It's one-eight-seven-three-dash-five," he said. "Light

blue Pax, two-seater. Do you want the license number, too?"



"No, just your parking number. I'll recognize it when I see it. But

God only knows what level it's on. That night man really--"



"Never mind," Harry interrupted. "How soon?"



"Twenty minutes or so. Maybe half an hour."



"Half an hour? I'll be late. Hurry it up!"



Harry clicked the video and shook his head. Half an hour! Well, you

had to expect these things if you wanted to be independent and do your

own driving today. If he wanted to work his priority through the

office, he could get his application honored on the I.C. Line within a

month. But the I.C. was just another commutrain, and he couldn't take

it. Standing and swaying for almost two hours, fighting the crowds,

battling his way in and out of the sidewalk escalators. Besides, there

was always the danger of being crushed. He'd seen an old man trampled

to death on a Michigan Boulevard escalator-feeder, and he'd never

forgotten it.



Being afraid was only a partial reason for his reluctance to change.

The worst thing, for Harry, was the thought of all those people; the

forced bodily contact, the awareness of smothered breathing, odors,

and the crushing confinement of flesh against flesh. It was bad enough

in the lines, or on the streets. The commutrain was just too much.



Yet, as a small boy, Harry could remember the day when he'd loved such

trips. Sitting there looking out of the window as the scenery whirled

past--that was always a thrill when you were a little kid. How long

ago had that been? More than twenty years, wasn't it?



Now there weren't any seats, and no windows. Which was just as well,

probably, because the scenery didn't whirl past any more, either.

Instead, there was a stop at every station on the line, and a constant

battle as people jockeyed for position to reach the exit-doors in

time.



No, the car was better.



Harry reached for a container in the cabinet and poured out a couple

of aspirystamines. That ought to help the headache. At least until he

got to the office. Then he could start with the daily quota of

yellowjackets. Meanwhile, getting out on the street might help him,

too. A shame there wasn't a window in this apartment, but then, what

good would it do, really? All he could see through it would be the

next apartment.



He shrugged and picked up his coat. Nine-thirty, time to go

downstairs. Maybe the car would be located sooner than Bill had

promised; after all, he had nine assistants, and not everybody went to

work on this first daylight shift.



Harry walked down the hall and punched the elevator button. He looked

at the indicator, watched the red band move towards the numeral of

this floor, then sweep past it.



"Full up!" he muttered. "Oh, well."



He reached out and touched both sides of the corridor. That was

another thing he disliked; these narrow corridors. Two people could

scarcely squeeze past one another without touching. Of course, it did

save space to build apartments this way, and space was at a premium.

But Harry couldn't get used to it. Now he remembered some of the old

buildings that were still around when he was a little boy--



The headache seemed to be getting worse instead of better. Harry

looked at the indicator above the other elevator entrance. The red

band was crawling upward, passing him to stop on 48. That was the top

floor. Now it was moving down, down; stopping on 47, 46, 45, 44, 43,

and--here it was!



"Stand back, please!" said the tape. Harry did his best to oblige, but

there wasn't much room. A good two dozen of his upstairs neighbors

jammed the compartment. Harry thought he recognized one or two of the

men, but he couldn't be sure. There were so many people, so many

faces. After a while it got so they all seemed to look alike. Yes, and

breathed alike, and felt alike when you were squeezed up against them,

and you were always being squeezed up against them, wherever you went.

And you could smell them, and hear them wheeze and cough, and you went

falling down with them into a bottomless pit where your head began to

throb and throb and it was hard to move away from all that heat and

pressure. It was hard enough just to keep from screaming--



Then the door opened and Harry was catapulted out into the lobby. The

mob behind him pushed and clawed because they were in a hurry; they

were always in a hurry these days, and if you got in their way they'd

trample you down like that old man had been trampled down; there was

no room for one man in a crowd any more.



Harry blinked and shook his head.



He gripped the edge of the wall and clung there in an effort to avoid

being swept out of the lobby completely. His hands were sticky with

perspiration. They slipped off as he slowly inched his way back

through the crush of the mob.



"Wait for me!" he called. "Wait for me, I'm going down!" But his voice

was lost in the maelstrom of sound just as his body was lost in the

maelstrom of motion. Besides, an automatic elevator cannot hear. It is

merely a mechanism that goes up and down, just like the other

mechanisms that go in and out, or around and around, and you get

caught up in them the way a squirrel gets caught in a squirrel-cage

and you race and race, and the best you can hope for is to keep up

with the machinery.



The elevator door clanged shut before Harry could reach it. He waited

for another car to arrive, and this time he stood aside as the crowd

emerged, then darted in behind them.



The car descended to the first garage level, and Harry stood gulping

gratefully in the comparative isolation. There weren't more than ten

people accompanying him.



He emerged on the ramp, gave his number to the attendant, and waved at



Bill in his office. Bill seemed to recognize him; at least he nodded,

briefly. No sense trying to talk--not in this sullen subterranea,

filled with the booming echo of exhausts, the despairing shriek of

brakes. Headlights flickered in the darkness as cars whirled past,

ascending and descending on the loading platforms. The signal systems

winked from the walls, and tires screeched defiance to the warning

bells.



Old-fashioned theologians, Harry remembered, used to argue whether

there really was a Hell, and if so, had it been created by God or the

Devil? Too bad they weren't around today to get an answer to their

questions. There was a Hell, and it had been created by General

Motors.



Harry's temples began to throb. Through blurred eyes, he saw the

attendant beckoning him down the line to a platform marked Check-Out

#3. He stood there with a cluster of others, waiting.



What was the matter with him today, anyway? First the headache, and

now his feet were hurting. Standing around waiting, that's what did

it. This eternal waiting. When he was a kid, the grownups were always

complaining about the long seven-hour work days and how they cut into

their leisure time. Well, maybe they had reason to gripe, but at least

there was some leisure before work began or after it was through.

Now that extra time was consumed in waiting. Standing in line,

standing in crowds, wearing yourself out doing nothing.



Still, this time it wasn't really so bad. Within ten minutes the light

blue Pax rolled up before him. Harry climbed in as the attendant slid

out from behind the wheel and prepared to leave.



Then a fat man appeared, running along the ramp. He gestured wildly

with a plump thumb. Harry nodded briefly, and the fat man hurled

himself into the seat beside him and slammed the door.



They were off. Harry read the signals impatiently, waiting for the

green Go. The moment he saw it he gunned his motor and got the car

up to twenty-two and zipped away.



That's what he liked, that's what he always waited for. Of course it

was dangerous, here in the tunnel system under the garage, but Harry

always got a thrill out of speed. The Pax could do thirty-five or even

forty, probably, on a theoretical open road. Still, twenty-two was

enough to satisfy Harry.



He whizzed up the ramp, turned, headed for the street-level, then

braked and waited for the signal to emerge.



Harsh sunlight pierced the smog and he felt his eyes watering. Now the

street noises assailed his ears; the grinding of gears, the revving of

motors. But at least the total volume was lower, and with the windows

tightly closed against the acrid air, he could hear.



Turning to the fat man beside him he said, "Hello, Frazer. What's the

urgency?"



"Got to get downtown before eleven," the fat man answered. "Board

meeting today, but I forgot about it. Knew I wouldn't have time to

wait for the car, and I was hoping I'd find someone who'd give me a

lift. Lucky for me that you came along when you did."



Harry nodded but did not reply. At the moment he was trying to edge

into the traffic beyond. It flowed, bumper to bumper, in a steady

stream; a stream moving at the uniform and prescribed rate of fifteen

miles per hour. He released his brakes and the Pax nosed forward until

a truck sounded its horn in ominous warning. The noise hurt Harry's

head; he winced and grimaced.



"What's the matter?" asked Frazer.



"Headache," Harry muttered. He menaced a Chevsoto with his bumper.

"Damn it, I thought they didn't allow those big four-passenger jobs on

this arterial during rush hours!" Gradually he managed to turn until

he was in the righthand lane. "There," he said. "We're off."



And so they were, for all of three minutes, with the speed set at

fifteen on autopilot. Then a signal went into action somewhere up

ahead, and the procession halted. Harry flicked his switch. As was

customary, horns sounded indignantly on all sides--a mechanical

protest against a mechanical obstruction. Harry winced again.



"Hangover?" Frazer asked, solicitously. "Try aspirystamine."



Harry shook his head. "No hangover. And I've already taken three,

thanks. Nothing does any good. So I guess it's just up to you."



"Up to me?" Frazer was genuinely puzzled. "What can I do about your

headaches?"



"You're on the Board of City Planners, aren't you?"



"That's right."



"Well, I've got a suggestion for you to give to them. Tell them to

start planning to drop a couple of heavy thermo-nucs on this area.

Clean out twenty or thirty million people. We'd never miss 'em."



Frazer chuckled wryly. "I wish I had a buck for every time I've heard

that suggestion."



"Ever stop to think why you hear it so often? It's because everybody

feels the same way--we can't take being hemmed in like this."



"Well, a bomb wouldn't help. You know that." Frazer pursed his lips.

"Robertson figured out what would happen, with the chain-reaction."



* * * * *



Harry glanced sideways at his companion as the car started forward

once again. "I've always wondered about that," he said. "Seriously, I

mean. Is the story really true, or is it just some more of this

government propaganda you fellows like to hand out?"



Frazer sighed. "It's true, all right. There was a scientist named

Robertson, and he did come up with the thermo-nuc formula, way back in

'75. Proved it, too. Use what he developed and the chain-reaction

would never end. Scientists in other countries tested the theory and

agreed; there was no collusion, it just worked out that way on a

practical basis. Hasn't been a war since--what more proof do you

want?"



"Well, couldn't they just use some of the old-fashioned hydrogen

bombs?"



"Be sensible, man! Once a war started, no nation could resist the

temptation to go all-out. Fortunately, everyone realizes that. So we

have peace. Permanent peace."



"I'll take a good war anytime, in preference to this."



"Harry, you don't know what you're talking about. You aren't so young

that you can't remember what it was like in the old days. Everybody

living in fear, waiting for the bombs to fall. People dying of disease

and worried about dying from radiation and fallout. All the

international rivalries, the power-politics, the eternal pressures and

constant crises. Nobody in his right mind would want to go back to

that. We've come a mighty long way in the last twenty years or so."



Harry switched to autopilot and sat back. "Maybe that's the trouble,"

he said. "Maybe we've come too far, too fast. I wasn't kidding about

dropping those thermo-nucs, either. Something has to be done. We

can't go on like this indefinitely. Why doesn't the Board come up with

an answer?"



Frazer shrugged his heavy shoulders. "You think we haven't tried,

aren't trying now? We're aware of the situation as well as you

are--and then some. But there's no easy solution. The population just

keeps growing, that's all. No war to cut it down, contagious diseases

at a minimum, average life-expectancy up to ninety years or better.

Naturally, this results in a problem. But a bomb won't help bring

about any permanent solution. Besides, this isn't a local matter, or

even a national one. It's global. What do you think those summit

meetings are all about?"



"What about birth control?" Harry asked. "Why don't they really get

behind an emigration movement?"



"We can't limit procreation by law. You know that." Frazer peered out

at the swarming streams on the sidewalk levels. "It's more than a

religious or a political question--it's a social one. People want

kids. They can afford them. Besides, the Housing Act is set up so that

having kids is just about the only way you can ever get into larger

living-quarters."



"Couldn't they try reverse-psychology? I mean, grant priority to

people who are willing to be sterilized?"



"They tried it, on a limited experimental scale, about three years ago

out on the West Coast."



"I never heard anything about it."



"Damned right you didn't," Frazer replied, grimly. "They kept the

whole project under wraps, and for a good reason. The publicity might

have wrecked the Administration."



"What happened?"



"What do you suppose happened? There were riots. Do you think a man

and his wife and three kids, living in three rooms, liked the idea of

standing by and watching a sterilized couple enjoy a four-room place

with lawn space? Things got pretty ugly, let me tell you. There was a

rumor going around that the country was in the hands of

homosexuals--the churches were up in arms--and if that wasn't bad

enough, we had to face up to the primary problem. There just wasn't,

just isn't, enough space. Not in areas suitable for maintaining a

population. Mountains are still mountains and deserts are still

deserts. Maybe we can put up housing in such regions, but who can live

there? Even with decentralization going full blast, people must live

within reasonable access to their work. No, we're just running out of

room."



Again the car halted on signal. Over the blasting of the horns, Harry

repeated his query about emigration.



Frazer shook his head, but made no attempt to reply until the horns

had quieted and they were under way once more.



"As for emigration, we're just getting some of our own medicine in

return. About eighty years ago, we clamped down and closed the door on

immigrants; established a quota. Now the same quota is being used

against us, and you can't really blame other nations for it. They're

facing worse population increases than we are. Look at the African

Federation, and what's happened there, in spite of all the

wealth! And South America is even worse, in spite of all the

reclamation projects. Fifteen years ago, when they cleared out the

Amazon Basin, they thought they'd have enough room for fifty years to

come. And now look at it--two hundred million, that's the latest

figure we've got."



"So what's the answer?" Harry asked.



"I don't know. If it wasn't for hydroponics and the Ag Culture

controls, we'd be licked right now. As it is, we can still supply

enough food, and the old supply-and-demand takes care of the economy

as a whole. I have no recommendations for an overall solution, or even

a regional one. My job, the Board's job, is regulating housing and

traffic and transportation in Chicagee. That's about all you can

expect us to handle."



Again they jolted to a stop and the horns howled all around them.

Harry sat there until a muscle in the side of his jaw began to twitch.

Suddenly he pounded on the horn with both fists.



"Shut up!" he yelled. "For the love of Heaven, shut up!"



Abruptly he slumped back. "Sorry," he mumbled. "It's my damned

headache. I--I've got to get out of this."



"Job getting you down?"



"No. It's a good job. At least everybody tells me so. Twenty-five

hours a week, three hundred bucks. The car. The room. The telescreen

and liquor and yellowjackets. Plenty of time to kill. Unless it's the

time that's killing me."



"But--what do you want?"



Harry stepped on the accelerator and they inched along. Now the street

widened into eight traffic lanes and the big semis joined the

procession on the edge of the downtown area.



"I want out," Harry said. "Out of this."



"Don't you ever visit the National Preserves?" Frazer asked.



"Sure I do. Fly up every vacation. Take a tame plane to a tame

government resort and catch my quota of two tame fish. Great sport! If

I got married, I'd be entitled to four tame fish. But that's not what

I want. I want what my father used to talk about. I want to drive into

the country, without a permit, mind you; just to drive wherever I

like. I want to see cows and chickens and trees and lakes and sky."



"You sound like a Naturalist."



"Don't sneer. Maybe the Naturalists are right. Maybe we ought to cut

out all this phoney progress and phoney peace that passeth all

understanding. I'm no liberal, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I

think the Naturalists have the only answer."



"But what can you do about it?" Frazer murmured. "Suppose for the

sake of argument that they are right. How can you change things? We

can't just will ourselves to stop growing, and we can't legislate

against biology. More people, in better health, with more free time,

are just bound to have more offspring. It's inevitable, under the

circumstances. And neither you nor I nor anyone has the right to

condemn millions upon millions of others to death through war or

disease."



"I know," Harry said. "It's hopeless, I guess. All the same, I want

out." He wet his lips. "Frazer, you're on the Board here. You've got

connections higher up. If I could only get a chance to transfer to Ag

Culture, go on one of those farms as a worker--"



Frazer shook his head. "Sorry, Harry. You know the situation there,

I'm sure. Right now there's roughly ninety million approved

applications on file. Everybody wants to get into Ag Culture."



"But couldn't I just buy some land, get a government contract for

foodstuffs?"



"Have you got the bucks? A minimum forty acres leased from one of the

farm corporations will cost you two hundred thousand at the very

least, not counting equipment." He paused. "Besides, there's

Vocational Apt. What did your tests show?"



"You're right," Harry said. "I'm supposed to be an agency man. An

agency man until I die. Or retire on my pension, at fifty, and sit in

my little room for the next fifty years, turning on the telescreen

every morning to hear some loudmouthed liar tell me it's a beautiful

day in Chicagee. Who knows, maybe by that time we'll have a hundred

billion people enjoying peace and progress and prosperity. All sitting

in little rooms and--"



"Watch out!" Frazer grabbed the wheel. "You nearly hit that truck." He

waited until Harry's face relaxed before relinquishing his grip.

"Harry, you'd better go in for a checkup. It isn't just a headache

with you, is it?"



"You're not fooling," Harry told him. "It isn't just a headache."



He began to think about what it really was, and that helped a

little. It helped him get through the worst part, which was the

downtown traffic and letting Frazer off and listening to Frazer urge

him to see a doctor.



Then he got to the building parking area and let them take his car

away and bury it down in the droning darkness where the horns hooted

and the headlights glared.



Harry climbed the ramp and mingled with the ten-thirty shift on its

way up to the elevators. Eighteen elevators in his building, to serve

eighty floors. Nine of the elevators were express to the fiftieth

floor, three were express to sixty-five. He wanted one of the latter,

and so did the mob. The crushing, clinging mob. They pressed and

panted the way mobs always do; mobs that lynch and torture and dance

around bonfires and guillotines and try to drag you down to trample

you to death because they can't stand you if your name is Harry and

you want to be different.



They hate you because you don't like powdered eggs and the telescreen

and a beautiful day in Chicagee. And they stare at you because your

forehead hurts and the muscle in your jaw twitches and they know you

want to scream as you go up, up, up, and try to think why you get a

headache from jerking your head to the left.



Then Harry was at the office door and they said good morning when he

came in, all eighty of the typists in the outer office working their

electronic machines and offering him their electronic smiles,

including the girl he had made electronic love to last Saturday night

and who wanted him to move into a two-room marriage and have children,

lots of children who could enjoy peace and progress and prosperity.



* * * * *



Harry snapped out of it, going down the corridor. Only a few steps

more and he'd be safe in his office, his own private office, almost as

big as his apartment. And there would be liquor, and the yellowjackets

in the drawer. That would help. Then he could get to work.



What was today's assignment? He tried to remember. It was

Wilmer-Klibby, wasn't it? Telescreenads for Wilmer-Klibby, makers of

window-glass.



Window-glass.



He opened his office door and then slammed it shut behind him. For a

minute everything blurred, and then he could remember.



Now he knew what caused him to jerk his head, what gave him the

headaches when he did so. Of course. That was it.



When he sat down at the table for breakfast in the morning he turned

his head to the left because he'd always done so, ever since he was a

little boy. A little boy, in what was then Wheaton, sitting at the

breakfast table and looking out of the window. Looking out at summer

sunshine, spring rain, autumn haze, the white wonder of newfallen

snow.



He'd never broken himself of the habit. He still looked to the left

every morning, just as he had today. But there was no window any more.

There was only a blank wall. And beyond it, the smog and the clamor

and the crowds.



Window-glass. Wilmer-Klibby had problems. Nobody was buying

window-glass any more. Nobody except the people who put up buildings

like this. There were still windows on the top floors, just like the

window here in his office.



Harry stepped over to it, moving very slowly because of his head. It

hurt to keep his eyes open, but he wanted to stare out of the window.

Up this high you could see above the smog. You could see the sun like

a radiant jewel packed in the cotton cumulus of clouds. If you opened

the window you could feel fresh air against your forehead, you could

breathe it in and breathe out the headache.



But you didn't dare look down. Oh, no, never look down, because then

you'd see the buildings all around you. The buildings below, black and

sooty, their jagged outlines like the stumps of rotten teeth. And they

stretched off in all directions, as far as the eye could attain; row

after row of rotten teeth grinning up from the smog-choked throat of

the streets. From the maw of the city far below came this faint but

endless howling, this screaming of traffic and toil. And you couldn't

help it, you breathed that in too, along with the fresh air, and it

poisoned you and it did more than make your head ache. It made your

heart ache and it made your soul sick, and it made you close your eyes

and your lungs and your brain against it.



Harry reeled, but he knew this was the only way. Close your brain

against it. And then, when you opened your eyes again, maybe you

could see the way things used to be--



It was snowing out and it was a wet snow, the very best kind for

snowballs and making a snowman, and the whole gang would come out

after school.



But there was no school, this was Saturday, and the leaves were russet

and gold and red so that it looked as if all the trees in the world

were on fire. And you could scuff when you walked and pile up fallen

leaves from the grass and roll in them.



And it was swell to roll down the front lawn in summer, just roll

right down to the edge of the sidewalk like it was a big hill and let

Daddy catch you at the bottom, laughing.



Mamma laughed too, and she said, Look, it's springtime, the lilacs

are out, do you want to touch the pretty lilacs, Harry?



And Harry didn't quite understand what she was saying, but he reached

out and they were purple and smelled of rain and soft sweetness and

they were just beyond the window, if he reached a little further he

could touch them--



And then the snow and the leaves and the grass and the lilacs

disappeared, and Harry could see the rotten teeth again, leering and

looming and snapping at him. They were going to bite, they were going

to chew, they were going to devour, and he couldn't stop them,

couldn't stop himself. He was falling into the howling jaws of the

city.



His last conscious effort was a desperate attempt to gulp fresh air

into his lungs before he pinwheeled down. Fresh air was good for

headaches....