The Metallic Muse (20 page)

“I’m trying to bore myself,” Donald said. He lay down again and added, “It isn’t easy.”

Kalder and Pete withdrew quietly and closed the door. “Where’s the nearest exit?” Kalder asked, and Pete obligingly led him away.

That night Kalder sought out his father, to the older man’s intense surprise. Dr. Kalder had wanted his son to study medicine. Kalder knew only too well the deadly monotony of the medical profession, and he had no difficulty in finding more amusing ways of spending his time. It was only when he learned that June Holbertson’s family sternly disapproved of a young man of twenty-seven who had no occupation or profession that he decided to go to work.

Dr. Kalder was on night duty at a small branch clinic. There were no patients, and he had sent his interns off to bed. “How’s the job going?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Kalder said. “Tell me, Dad, what’s the value of TV?”

The doctor said thoughtfully, “My guess is that without it we’d have a serious situation on our hands in a matter of days, if not hours. Maybe a revolution. Why?”

“Tell me why,” Kalder said. The doctor regarded him perplexedly, and he quickly added, “I just want to hear someone talk about it.”

Dr. Kalder sighed. “So you’re discouraged already. You’ll have to learn to apply yourself, Bruce. What will happen to the human race if you youngsters shirk your responsibilities? When the big move comes there won’t be enough educated and professional people to keep things going.”

“TV,” Kalder reminded him. “Why?”

“It’s rather obvious, isn’t it? Most people have nothing to do. It keeps them occupied.”

“It seems to me that there’s lots of things people could be doing. We keep hearing about the housing shortage. I saw a mob of people moving out of Q tunnel over in Section Twenty-seven. I don’t know where they went unless they moved in with friends and relatives. People have all the time to watch TV. Why doesn’t someone put a few of them to digging out more living space?”

“It’s been tried,” the doctor said. “They won’t do it. That’s what brought on the last riot. That was seven—no, eight years ago.”

“Why won’t they do it?”

“They’re satisfied the way things are. The four hours of work a week they accept, because it’s always been that way. As long as we’re able to feed and clothe them, and they’re healthy, and they have fifteen films to choose from every hour, they’re satisfied. They won’t demand more, but they won’t take less! Oh, they’d like better quarters and less crowding if someone else would make it possible, but as for doing it themselves—why, the men grumble about that four hours a week, and the women grumble about the time they spend away from TV waiting to buy their supplies.”

“I see,” Kalder said. He got to his feet. “How many doctors will we have thirty years from now?”

“Enough for the present situation. Health is pretty much under control down here.”

“Supposing we were able to go back to the surface?”

“Then we wouldn’t have enough of anything.”

“I wish someone had spelled this out to me ten years ago.”

“I tried, Bruce. I tried my best. Maybe I didn’t spell very well.”

“Maybe I didn’t listen very well,” Kalder said.

Before he returned to his own plush quarters in the bachelor’s Club of Section 317—the section of the wealthy—he walked around for a long time in a maze of passageways, looking through doorways at the flickering TV sets.

Paul Holbertson bent over the graphs and traced a configuration thoughtfully. “Mmm, yes. We didn’t try this. Getting anywhere?”

June leaned forward anxiously, her hands clasped.

“I can state the problem,” Kalder said.

“The problem is that they’re not writing.”

“No. That’s merely a result. The problem is that they’ve lost interest in their subject matter, and they’re regaining their contact with reality.”

Paul Holbertson grinned slyly. He said to June, “You’ll have to keep this boy away from the library.”

“I’ve done very little reading,” Kalder said, “but I’ve done a lot of talking with writers. With a recorder. Listen.”

The voice was Walter Donald’s—bitter, accusative. “I shall write no more comedies about pirate ships. Or the private lives of queens. Or romances about knights in armor. Or adventures in space. God, what a laugh that is— man in space, when he can’t even get out of a hole in the ground! We’re drugging the people and ourselves with stories of things that aren’t and can’t be. I’m beginning to doubt that they ever were. Those things I can’t write, and I won’t. What I can write I don’t know.”

Kalder touched the switch. The president of Solar Productions said soberly, “I knew the problem was serious, but I had no idea—are they all like that?”

“Either they are or they soon will be. Are our competitors having the same trouble?”

“Naturally they don’t tell us their troubles, but I’m certain that they are. Only yesterday I suggested to Roger Atley that we might be willing to give up one of our wires so we could concentrate on quality productions. He begged me not to think of such a thing, which means that the government would have a tough time finding a replacement. Where do we go from here?”

“There are two possible approaches. Either we renew their interest in their subject matter, or we find new subject matter that they are interested in. By the way, I wont be ready to face the Board tomorrow.”

“I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Leave the graphs with me. I’m especially interested in your comparison of scripts produced with hours spent in the Tank. Obviously the Tank helps production up to a point, and too many writers are using it beyond that point. Wouldn’t it solve the problem if we limited writers to eight hours a week?”

“No, but if the Board needs something to talk about you can suggest that. I’ll have definite recommendations ready for the next meeting.”

June took his arm as they went out, and in the corridor he placed an affectionate kiss on her forehead and one considerably more affectionate on her lips.

“Going to save the family business?” she asked.

“Is it that bad?”

“Every hour on the hour we have to have four new films ready. One comedy, one romance, one adventure and one miscellaneous. That’s ninety-six deadlines to meet every day. We’ve had to sneak an old film in now and then just to pad things out, but people have terribly long memories and we’re taking a frightful risk. Yes, it’s that bad.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Kalder said. “Things are much worse than that.”

In spite of the fact that there were different writers there, or writers doing different things, the Tank always seemed the same. The one unchanging element was Walter Donald, who was in his usual place in the Area Five vent. Kalder prodded him with his foot. “I have a problem,” he said. “I need your help.”

Donald rolled over onto his back. The pattern of the grate was deeply impressed upon his dark skin. “Will you help me?” Kalder asked. Donald did not look up. “What kind of problem?” “I’m trying to get a script written. It’s about a writer. He and his family live in a small room over in Section Four ninety-five. He’s the only writer that lives there, and all the other men are factory workers. This writer’s family can’t understand why his work takes so much time. The other men work for an hour, and then they come home and watch TV with their families. The writer works long hours and has to spend days in the Tank looking for ideas. He earns good wages and his family can have luxuries the other families can’t afford, but his children just can’t understand why he’s never home to watch TV with them. I can’t think of a way to end it. Can you help me out?”

Donald said flatly, “Nuts. Didn’t you ever read the Code? They’d never film a thing like that.”

“Of course they would if I could get it written. The question is, could you write it? I realize you’ve never done anything like that, and if you don’t think you can handle it just say the word. I’ll ask someone else.”

Donald sat up. He stared dully at Kalder, his scowl wrinkling dark lines in his dark forehead. The sunlight had bleached his hair to startling whiteness. He said, “I know the Code forward and backward. I could get fired for wasting time on something like that.”

“I’m taking the responsibility,” Kalder said. “Could you write it?”

“I don’t know.” Donald pushed himself to his feet and climbed out of the vent. “A writer, you say. How many children?”

“That’s up to you. How many children do you have?”

“Three. Three children. They want him to watch TV with them, you say. But he hates TV because he writes scripts for TV, so whenever they turn it on—”

He pulled on his clothing and wandered away muttering to himself.

At the edge of the forest Kalder found Jeff Powell lying on his back staring up at a tree. Kalder sat down beside him, and Powell spoke without looking at him.

“In the autumn, the leaves turn color. Nature paints a masterpiece in the forest. By and by the leaves fall to the ground. If I wait here long enough, do you suppose these leaves will change color and fall?”

“Those leaves are phony,” Kalder said. “They’ll never change.”

Powell winced and regarded Kalder gravely. “Friend have you ever seen a tree? No, not this junk. A real tree. Have you ever felt one? I’ve put lots of trees into my scripts, but I never saw a tree. Isn’t that ridiculous? What does a tree feel like? What does it taste like? Do trees have a taste?”

“You write romances, don’t you?”

“When I write, I write romances. Romances with trees. Meet me under the green willow tree, my love. The weeping green willow tree. Do you know what a weeping green willow tree looks like? Production doesn’t. I went to the library and found a picture. Production made my weeping green willow tree into an oak.”

“According to the records, you’ve written a few comedies, too. Do you think you could handle a romantic comedy?”

“I’m not feeling very funny these days. For that matter, I’m not feeling romantic, either.”

“This would be a different kind of story. There’s this man who works in a factory, and he can’t get along with his foreman. They hate each other, and they’re always squabbling about something. Then the foreman’s son falls in love with the guy’s daughter. The two mothers get to know each other, and they try to help the kids while the two men are trying to keep them apart. I suppose it would be a tricky job to keep it funny. If you don’t think you can handle it—”

“Yeah,” Powell said. “Then the kids decide to break it up to keep the fathers happy just about the time that the fathers decide to pretend to be friends to keep the kids happy. Yeah.” He sat up abruptly. “What kind of a line are you handing me? They’d never film it. Didn’t you ever hear about Code?”

“Certainly they’d film it. I’ll take care of that.”

“If you say so. Let’s see—the foreman keeps trying to spy on his son, and the other guy keeps trying to spy on his daughter, so the two keep running into each other. And in the meantime—”

Kalder slipped away quietly. Wild profanity attracted his attention from the direction of the lake. A writer whom he did not know was attempting to fish, and on his first cast Barney’s monster of the deep had snapped his line.

“I have a problem,” Kalder said. “I want to get a script written. There’s this fellow who lives in a small room with his family, and when radiation seepage makes everyone in the next corridor move out, three families have to move in with him. He doesn’t like it, so he finds an undeveloped corridor and digs out a new room for his family. Then he decides one room isn’t enough, so he digs out two more. Everyone thinks he’s crazy, wanting so much space, and when he finishes the government moves five more families in with him. Do you think you can write it?”

The writer dropped his fishing pole. He stammered “What—what about Code?”

Some of the faces were hostile. Several were violently angry. June Holbertson looked hurt; her father seemed puzzled.

Kalder said calmly, “I accept full responsibility.”

“That’s all very well,” old Emmanuel Holbertson sputtered. “You accept the responsibility, but it’s our reputations that are being ruined.”

“To continue my report,” Kalder said, “I have organized a small group of the company’s writers. They represent five per cent of the total, and they are out-producing-the other ninety-five per cent at the rate of ten to one. I’ve had fifty production units assigned to my control. Those units are shooting scripts as fast as my writers can produce them. I have assumed full responsibility for the company’s fourth wire, the miscellaneous channel, and for the past two weeks that channel has carried nothing but films I have produced myself. I will ask the Chairman of the Board: Has he received any complaints about the fourth channel programs?”

“I saw some of those films myself, Kalder,” Emmanuel shouted. “I’m complaining!”

“Code is based upon the accumulated experience of an entire industry, Bruce,” Paul Holbertson said. “You shouldn’t have thrown it out without discussing it with the Board.”

“I was given complete authority to take the steps I thought necessary to solve a problem. I did so, and I have solved the problem. As a precaution I discussed what I intended to do with half-a-dozen top-level government officials, including the head of the Board of Censorship. They approved the project, and I have letters of congratulations from them on the way it’s been working out. They think TV is going to help them solve some of their problems. Further, the Information Center reports that our fourth channel programs have taken over the popularity leadership.”

“Helping the government is all very well,” Emmanuel said testily, “but we have no obligation to destroy ourselves to do so.”

“Entertainment is our business, Bruce,” Paul Holbertson said. “It’s very important business. We put meaning into otherwise meaningless lives. Code is the reason we’ve been able to do this successfully for so long.”

“With your permission,” Kalder said, “I’ll give you my reasons for the action I’ve taken.”

Interruptions exploded around the table. A vice-president put the motion: the position of Vice-President and Director of Writing Personnel to be abolished immediately, and Bruce Kalder dismissed. Seconded and passed.