Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One (48 page)

“What do they mean ‘hand-tools’?”

“These are tools which are held in the hands.”

“Does that mean a shovel?”

“A shovel?” Miskitman shrugged his burly shoulders. “A shovel is a hand-tool.”

Luke asked in a voice of hushed wonder: “They want me to polish my shovel, carry it four miles to the warehouse, then pick it up tomorrow and carry it back here?”

Miskitman unfolded the directive, held it at arm’s length, read with moving lips. “That is the order.” He refolded the paper, returned it to his pocket.

Luke again feigned astonishment. “Certainly there’s a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Miskitman was puzzled. “Why should there be a mistake?”

“They can’t be serious,” said Luke. “It’s not only ridiculous, it’s peculiar.”

“I do not know,” said Miskitman incuriously. “To work. We are late one minute and a half.”

“I assume that all this cleaning and transportation is done on Organization time,” Luke suggested.

Miskitman unfolded the directive, held it at arm’s length, read. “It does not say so. Our quota is not different.” He folded the directive, put it in his pocket.

Luke spat on the rock floor. “I’ll bring my own shovel. Let ’em carry around their own precious hand-tools.”

Miskitman scratched his chin, once more re-read the directive. He shook his head dubiously. “The order says that all hand-tools must be cleaned and taken to the warehouse. It does not say who owns the tools.”

Luke could hardly speak for exasperation. “You know what I think of that directive?”

Fedor Miskitman paid him no heed. “To work. We are over time.”

“If I was general superintendent—” Luke began, but Miskitman rumbled roughly. “We do not earn perquisites by talking. To work. We are late.”

The rotary cutter started up; seventy-two teeth snarled into gray-brown sandstone. Hopper jaws swallowed the chunks, passing them down an epiglottis into a feeder gut which evacuated far down the tunnel into lift-buckets. Stray chips rained upon the tunnel floor, which Luke Grogatch must scrape up and return into the hopper. Behind Luke two reinforcement men flung steel hoops into place, flash-welding them to longitudinal bars with quick pinches of the fingers, contact-plates in their gauntlets discharging the requisite gout of energy. Behind came the concrete-spray man, mix hissing out of his revolving spider, followed by two finishers, nervous men working with furious energy, stroking the concrete into a glossy polish. Fedor Miskitman marched back and forth, testing the reinforcement, gauging the thickness of the concrete, making frequent progress checks on the chart to the rear of the rotary cutter, where an electronic device traced the course of the tunnel, guiding it through the system of conduits, ducts, passages, pipes, tubes for water, air, gas, steam, transportation, freight and communication which knit the City into an Organized unit.

The night shift ended at four o’clock in the morning. Miskitman made careful entries in his log; the concrete-spray man blew out his nozzles; the reinforcement workers removed their gauntlets, power packs and insulating garments. Luke Grogatch straightened, rubbed his sore back, stood glowering at the shovel. He felt Miskitman’s ox-calm scrutiny. If he threw the shovel to the side of the tunnel as usual and marched off about his business, he would be guilty of Disorganized Conduct. The penalty, as Luke knew well, was declassification. Luke stared at the shovel, fuming with humiliation. Conform, or be declassified. Submit—or become a Junior Executive.

Luke heaved a deep sigh. The shovel was clean enough; one or two swipes with a rag would remove the dust. But there was the ride by crowded man-belt to the warehouse, the queue at the window, the check-in, the added distance to his dormitory. Tomorrow the process must be repeated. Why the necessity for this added effort? Luke knew well enough. An obscure functionary somewhere along the chain of bureaus and commissions had been at a loss for a means to display his diligence. What better method than concern for valuable City property? Consequently the absurd directive, filtering down to Fedor Miskitman and ultimately Luke Grogatch, the victim. What joy to meet this obscure functionary face to face, to tweak his sniveling nose, to kick his craven rump along the corridors of his own office.

Fedor Miskitman’s voice disturbed his reverie. “Clean your shovel. It is the end of the shift.”

Luke made token resistance. “The shovel is clean,” he growled. “This is the most absurd antic I’ve ever been coerced into. If only I—”

Fedor Miskitman, in a voice as calm and unhurried as a deep river, said, “If you do not like the policy, you should put a petition in the Suggestion Box. That is the privilege of all. Until the policy is changed you must conform. That is the way we live. That is Organization, and we are Organized men.”

“Let me see that directive,” Luke barked. “I’ll get it changed. I’ll cram it down somebody’s throat. I’ll—”

“You must wait until it is logged. Then you may have it; it is useless to me.”

“I’ll wait,” said Luke between clenched teeth.

With method and deliberation Fedor Miskitman made a final check of the job: inspecting machinery, the teeth of the cutter-head, the nozzles of the spider, the discharge belt. He went to his little desk at the rear of the rotary drill, noted progress, signed expense-account vouchers, finally registered the policy directive on mini-film. Then with a ponderous sweep of his arm, he tendered the yellow sheet to Luke. “What will you do with it?”

“I’ll find who formed this idiotic policy. I’ll tell him what I think of it and what I think of him, to boot.”

Miskitman shook his head in disapproval. “That is not the way such things should be done.”

“How would you do it?” asked Luke with a wolfish grin.

Miskitman considered, pursing his lips, perking his bristling eyebrows. At last with great simplicity of manner he said, “I would not do it.”

Luke threw up his hands, set off down the tunnel. Miskitman’s voice boomed against his back. “You must take the shovel!”

Luke halted. Slowly he faced about, glared back at the hulking figure of the foreman. Obey the policy directive, or be declassified. With slow steps, a hanging head and averted eyes, he retraced his path. Snatching the shovel, he stalked back down the tunnel. His bony shoulder blades were exposed and sensitive, and Fedor Miskitman’s mild blue gaze, following him, seemed to scrape the nerves of his back.

Ahead the tunnel extended, a glossy pale sinus, dwindling back along the distance they had bored. Through some odd trick of refraction alternate bright and dark rings circled the tube, confusing the eye, creating a hypnotic semblance of two-dimensionality. Luke shuffled drearily into this illusory bull’s-eye, dazed with shame and helplessness, the shovel a load of despair. Had he come to this—Luke Grogatch, previously so arrogant in his cynicism and barely concealed Nonconformity? Must he cringe at last, submit slavishly to witless regulations?…If only he were a few places farther up the list! Drearily he pictured the fine incredulous shock with which he would have greeted the policy directive, the sardonic nonchalance with which he would have let the shovel fall from his limp hands…Too late, too late! Now he must toe the mark, must carry his shovel dutifully to the warehouse. In a spasm of rage he flung the blameless implement clattering down the tunnel ahead of him. Nothing he could do! Nowhere to turn! No way to strike back! Organization: smooth and relentless; Organization, massive and inert, tolerant of the submissive, serenely cruel to the unbeliever…Luke came to his shovel and whispering an obscenity snatched it up and half-ran down the pallid tunnel.

He climbed through a manhole, emerged upon the deck of the 1123rd Avenue Hub, where he was instantly absorbed in the crowds trampling between the man-belts, which radiated like spokes, and the various escalators. Clasping the shovel to his chest, Luke struggled aboard the Fontego Man-belt and rushed south, in a direction opposite to that of his dormitory. He rode ten minutes to Astoria Hub, dropped a dozen levels on the Grimesby College Escalator, crossed a gloomy dank area smelling of old rock to a local feeder-belt which carried him to the District 8892 Sewer Maintenance Warehouse.

Luke found the warehouse brightly lit, and the center of considerable activity, with several hundred men coming and going. Those coming, like Luke, carried tools; those going went empty-handed.

Luke joined the line which had formed in front of the tool storeroom. Fifty or sixty men preceded him, a drab centipede of arms, shoulders, heads, legs, the tools projecting to either side. The centipede moved slowly, the men exchanging badinage and quips.

Observing their patience, Luke’s normal irascibility asserted itself. Look at them, he thought, standing like sheep, jumping to attention at the rustle of an unfolding directive. Did they inquire the reason for the order? Did they question the necessity for their inconvenience? No! The louts stood chuckling and chatting, accepting the directive as one of life’s incalculable vicissitudes, something elemental and arbitrary, like the changing of the seasons…And he, Luke Grogatch, was he better or worse? The question burned in Luke’s throat like the aftertaste of vomit.

Still, better or worse, where was his choice? Conform or declassify. A poor choice. There was always the recourse of the Suggestion Box, as Fedor Miskitman, perhaps in bland jest, had pointed out. Luke growled in disgust. Weeks later he might receive a printed form with one statement of a multiple-choice list checked off by some clerical flunky or junior executive: “The situation described by your petition is already under study by responsible officials. Thank you for your interest.” Or “The situation described by your petition is temporary and may shortly be altered. Thank you for your interest.” Or “The situation described by your petition is the product of established policy and is not subject to change. Thank you for your interest.”

A novel thought occurred to Luke: he might exert himself and reclassify
up
the list…As soon as the idea arrived he dismissed it. In the first place he was close to middle age; too many young men were pushing up past him. Even if he could goad himself into the competition…

The line moved slowly forward. Behind Luke a plump little man sagged under the weight of a Velstro inchskip. A forelock of light brown floss dangled into his moony face; his mouth was puckered into a rosebud of concentration; his eyes were absurdly serious. He wore a rather dapper pink and brown coverall with orange ankle-boots and a blue beret with the three orange pom-poms affected by the Velstro technicians.

Between shabby sour-mouthed Luke and this short moony man in the dandy’s coveralls existed so basic a difference that an immediate mutual dislike was inevitable. The short man’s prominent hazel eyes rested on Luke’s shovel, traveled thoughtfully over Luke’s dirt-stained trousers and jacket. He turned his eyes to the side.

“Come a long way?” Luke asked maliciously.

“Not far,” said the moon-faced man.

“Worked overtime, eh?” Luke winked. “A bit of quiet beavering, nothing like it—or so I’m told.”

“We finished the job,” said the plump man with dignity. “Beavering doesn’t enter into it. Why spend half tomorrow’s shift on five minutes work we could do tonight?”

“I know a reason,” said Luke wisely. “To do your fellow man a good one in the eye.”

The moon-faced man twisted his mouth in a quick uncertain smile, then decided that the remark was not humorous. “That’s not my way of working,” he said stiffly.

“That thing must be heavy,” said Luke, noting how the plump little arms struggled and readjusted to the irregular contours of the tool.

“Yes,” came the reply. “It is heavy.”

“An hour and a half,” intoned Luke. “That’s how long it’s taking me to park this shovel. Just because somebody up the list has a nightmare. And we poor hoodlums at the bottom suffer.”

“I’m not at the bottom of the list. I’m a Technical Tool Operator.”

“No difference,” said Luke. “The hour and a half is the same. Just for somebody’s silly notion.”

“It’s not really so silly,” said the moon-faced man. “I fancy there is a good reason for the policy.”

Luke shook the handle of the shovel. “And so I have to carry this back and forth along the man-belt three hours a day?”

The little man pursed his lips. “The author of the directive undoubtedly knows his business very well. Otherwise he’d not hold his classification.”

“Just who is this unsung hero?” sneered Luke. “I’d like to meet him. I’d like to learn why he wants me to waste three hours a day.”

The short man now regarded Luke as he might an insect in his victual ration. “You talk like a Nonconformist. Excuse me if I seem offensive.”

“Why apologize for something you can’t help?” asked Luke and turned his back.

He flung his shovel to the clerk behind the wicket and received a check. Elaborately Luke turned to the moon-faced man, tucked the check into his breast pocket. “You keep this; you’ll be using that shovel before I will.”

He stalked proudly out of the warehouse. A grand gesture, but—he hesitated before stepping on the man-belt—was it sensible? The moony technical tool operator in the pink and brown coveralls came out of the warehouse behind him, turned him a queer glance, and hurried away.

Luke looked back into the warehouse. If he returned now he could set things right and tomorrow there’d be no trouble. If he stormed off to his dormitory, it meant another declassification. Luke Grogatch, Junior Executive…Luke reached into his jumper, took out the policy directive he had acquired from Fedor Miskitman: a bit of yellow paper, printed with a few lines of type, a trivial thing in itself—but it symbolized the Organization: massive force in irresistible operation. Nervously Luke plucked at the paper and looked back into the warehouse. The tool operator had called him a Nonconformist; Luke’s mouth squirmed in a brief weary grimace. It wasn’t true. Luke was not a Nonconformist; Luke was nothing in particular. And he needed his bed, his nutrition ticket, his meager expense account. Luke groaned quietly—almost a whisper. The end of the road. He had gone as far as he could go; had he ever thought he could defeat the Organization? Maybe he was wrong and everyone else was right. Possible, thought Luke without conviction. Miskitman seemed content enough; the technical tool operator seemed not only content but complacent. Luke leaned against the warehouse wall, eyes burning and moist with self-pity. Nonconformist. Misfit. What was he going to do?