The Mind Spider and Other Stories (3 page)

The man he wanted answered almost immediately, a little cross with sleep.

Wisant was afraid he’d have trouble being coherent at all. He was startled to find himself talking with practically his normal confident authority and winningness.

"Wisant, Jack. Calling from home. Emergency. I need you and your squad on the double. Yes. Pick up Dr. Sims or Armstrong on the way but don’t waste time. Oh—and have your men bring ladders. Yes, and put in a quick call to Serenity Shoals for a ’copter. What?
My
authority. What? Jack, I don’t want to say it now, I’m not using our private line. Well, all right, just let me think for a minute . .

Judistrator Wisant ordinarily never had trouble in talking his way around stark facts. And he wouldn’t have had even this time, perhaps, if he hadn’t just the moment before seen something that distracted him.

Then the proper twist of phrase came to him.

“Look, Jack,” he said, “it’s this way: Gabby has gone to join her mother. Get here
fast.”

He turned off the phone and picked up the disturbing item: the bulletin cover beside his daughter’s bed. He read the note from Cruxon twice and his eyes widened and his jaw tightened.

His fear was all gone away somewhere. For the moment
all
his concerns were gone except this young man and his stupid smirking face and stupider title and his green ink.

He saw the pink pad and he picked up a dark crimson stylus and began to write rapidly in a script that was a shade larger and more angular than usual.

For
100
years even breakfast foods had been promoting delirious happiness and glorious peace of mind. To what end?

—the notebooks of A.S.

“Suppose you begin by backgrounding us in on what Individuality Unlimited is and how it came to be? I’m sure we all have a general idea and may know some aspects in detail, but the bold outline, from management’s point of view, should be firmed. At the least it will get us talking.”

This suggestion, coming from the judistrator himself, reflected the surface informality of the conference taking place in Wisant’s airy chambers in central New LA. Dr. Andreas Snowden sat on the judistrator’s right, doodling industriously. Securitor Harker sat on Wisant’s left, while flanking the trio were two female secretaries in dark business suits similar to those men wore a century before, though of somewhat shapelier cut and lighter material.

Like all the other men in the room, Wisant was sensibly clad in singlet, business jerkin, Bermuda shorts, and sandals. A folded pink paper sticking up a little from his breast pocket provided the only faintly incongruous detail. He had been just seven minutes late to the conference, perhaps a record for fathers who have seen their daughters ’coptered off to a mental hospital two hours earlier—though only Harker knew of and so could appreciate this iron-man achievement.

A stocky man with shaggy pepper-and-salt hair and pugnacious brows stood up across the table from Wisant.

"Good idea,” he said gruffly. “If we’re going to be hanged, let’s get the ropes around our necks. First I’d better identify us shifty-eyed miscreants. I’m Bob Diskrow, president and general manager.” He then indicated the two men on his left: "Mr. Sobody, our vice president in charge of research, and Dr. Gline, IU’s chief psychiatrist.” He turned to the right: “Miss Rawvetch, V. P. in charge of presentation—” (A bigboned blonde flashed her eyes. She was wearing a lavender business suit with pearl buttons, wing collars and Ascot tie) “—and Mr. Cruxon, junior V.P. in charge of the ... Monster Program.” David Cruxon was identifiably the young man of the photograph with the same very dark, crewcut hair and sharply watchful eyes, but now he looked simply haggard rather than mysterious. At the momentary hesitation in Disk-row’s voice he quirked a smile as rapid and almost as convulsive as a tic.

“I happen already to be acquainted with Mr. Cruxon,” Wisant said with a smile, “though in no fashion prejudicial to my conducting this conference. He and my daughter know each other socially.”

Diskrow stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels reflectively.

Wisant lifted a hand. “One moment,” he said. “There are some general considerations governing any judistrative conference of which I should remind us. They are in line with the general principle of government by Commission, Committee and Conference which has done so much to simplify legal problems in our times. This meeting is
private.
Press is excluded, politics are taboo. Any information you furnish about IU will be treated by us as strictly confidential and we trust you will return the courtesy regarding matters we may divulge. And this is a democratic conference.
Any
of us may speak freely.

“The suggestion has been made,” Wisant continued smoothly, “that some practices of IU are against the public health and safety. After you have presented your case and made your defense—pardon my putting it that way—I may in my judicial capacity issue certain advisements. If you comply with those, the matter is settled. If you do not, the advisements immediately become injunctions and I, in my administrative capacity, enforce them—though you may work for their removal through the regular legal channels. Understood?”

Diskrow nodded with a wry grimace. “Understood—you got us in a combined hammerlock and body scissors. (Just don’t sprinkle us with fire ants!) And now I’ll give you that bold outline you asked for—and try to be bold about it.”

He made a fist and stuck out a finger from it. "Let’s get one thing straight at the start: Individuality Unlimited is no idealistic or mystical outfit with its head in orbit around the moon, and it doesn’t pretend to be. We just manufacture and market a product the public is willing to fork out money for. That product is individuality.” He rolled the word on his tongue.

“Over one hundred years ago people started to get seriously afraid that the Machine Age would turn them into a race of robots. That mass production and consumption, the mass media of a now instantaneous communication, the subtle and often subliminal techniques of advertising and propaganda, plus the growing use of group-and hypnotherapy would turn them into a bunch of identical puppets. That wearing the same clothes, driving the same cars, living in look-alike suburban homes, reading the same pop books and listening to the same pop programs, they’d start thinking the same thoughts and having the same feelings and urges and end up with rubber-stamp personalities.

"Make no mistake, this fear was very real,” Diskrow went on, leaning his weight on the table and scowling. “It was just about the keynote of the whole Twentieth Century (and of course to some degree it’s still with us). The world was getting too big for any one man to comprehend, yet people were deeply afraid of groupthink, teamlife, hive-living, hypo-conformity, passive adjustment, and all the rest of it. The sociologist and analyst told them they had to play ‘roles’ in their family life and that didn’t help much, because a role is one more rubber stamp. Other cultures like Russia offered us no hope—they seemed further along the road to robot life than we were.

“Is short, people were deathly afraid of loss of identity, loss of the sense of being unique human beings. First and always they dreaded depersonalization, to give it its right name.

“Now that’s where Individuality Unlimited, operating under its time-honored slogan ‘Different Ways to Be Different,’ got its start,” Diskrow continued, making a scooping gesture, as if his right hand were IU gathering up the loose ends of existence. “At first our methods were pretty primitive or at least modest—we sold people individualized doodads to put on their cars and clothes and houses, we offered conversation kits and hobby guides, we featured Monthly Convention-Crushers and Taboo-Breakers that sounded very daring but really weren’t—” (Diskrow grinned and gave a little shrug) “—and incidentally we came in for a lot of ribbing on the score that we were trying to mass-produce individuality and turn out uniqueness on an assembly line. Actually a lot of our work still involves randomizing pattem-details and introducing automatic unpredictable variety into items as diverse as manufactured objects and philosophies of life.

“But in spite of the ribbing we kept going because we knew we had hold of a sound idea: that if a person can be made to
feel
he’s different, if he is encouraged to take the initiative in expressing himself in even a rather trivial way, then his inner man wakes up and takes over and starts to operate under his own steam. What people basically need is a periodic shot in the arm. I bunk you not when I tell you that here IU has always done and is still doing a real public service. We don’t necessarily give folks new personalities, but we renew the glow of those they have. As a result they become happier workers, better citizens. We make people individuality-certain"

“Uniqueness-convinced,” Miss Rawvetch put in brightly.

"Depersonalization-secure,” Dr. Gline chimed. He was a small man with a large forehead and a permanent hunch to his shoulders. He added: “Only a man who is secure in his own individuality can be at one with the cosmos and really benefit from the tranquil awe-inspiring rhythms of the stars, the seasons, and the sea.”

At that windy remark David Cruxon quirked a second grimace and scribbled something on the pad in front of him.

Diskrow nodded approvingly—at Gline. “Now as IU began to see the thing bigger, it had to enter new fields and accept new responsibilities. Adult education, for example—one very genuine way of making yourself more of an individual is to acquire new knowledge and skills. Three-D shows—we needed them to advertise and dramatize our techniques. Art —self-expression and a style of one’s own are master keys to individuality, though they don’t unlock everybody’s inner doors. Philosophy—it was a big step forward for us when we were able to offer people ‘A Philosophy of Life That’s Yours Alone.’ Religion—that too, of course, though only indirectly . . . strictly non-sectarian. Childhood lifeways—it’s surprising what you can do in an individualizing way with personalized games, adult toys, imaginary companions, and secret languages —and by recapturing and adapting something of the child’s vivid sense of uniqueness. Psychology—indeed yes, for a person’s individuality clearly depends on how his mind is organized and how fully its resources are used. Psychiatry too —it’s amazing how a knowledge of the workings of abnormal minds can be used to suggest interesting patterns for the normal mind. Why—”

Dr. Snowden cleared his throat. The noise was slight but the effect was ominous. Diskrow hurried in to say, “Of course we were well aware of the serious step we were taking in entering this field so we added to our staff a large psychology department of which Dr. Cline is the distinguished current chief.”

Dr. Snowden nodded thoughtfully at his professional colleague across the table. Dr. Gline blinked and hastily nodded back. Unnoticed, David Cruxon got off a third derisive grin.

Diskrow continued: “But I do want to emphasize the psychological aspect of our work—yes, and the psychiatric too—because they’ve led us to such fruitful ideas as our program of ‘Soft-Sell Your Superiority,’ which last year won a Lasker Group Award of the American Public Health Association."

Miss Rawvetch broke in eagerly: “And which was dramatized to the public by that still-popular 3-D show, The Useless Five, featuring the beloved characters of the Inferior Superman, the Mediocre Mutant, the Mixed-up Martian, the Clouded Esper and Rickety Robot."

Diskrow nodded.
“And
which also has led, by our usual reverse-twist technique, to our latest program of ‘Accent the Monster in You.’ Might as well call it our Monster Program.” He gave Wisant a frank smile. “I guess that’s the item that’s been bothering you gentlemen and so I’m going to let you hear about it from the young man who created it—under Dr. Gline’s close supervision. Dave, it’s all yours.”

Dave Cruxon stood up. He wasn’t as tall as one would have expected. He nodded around rapidly.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a deep but stridently annoying voice, "I had a soothing little presentation worked up for you. It was designed to show that IU’s Monster Program is completely trivial and one hundred percent innocuous.” He let that sink in, looked around sardonically, then went on with, “Well, I’m tossing that presentation in the junk-chewerl —because I don’t think it does justice to the seriousness of the situation or to the great service IU is capable of rendering the cause of public health. I may step on some ties but 111 try not to break any phalanges.”

Diskrow shot him a hard look that might have started out to be warning but ended up enigmatic. Dave grinned back at his boss, then his expression became grave.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “A spectre is haunting America—the spectre of Depersonalization. Mr. Diskrow and Dr. Gline mentioned it but they passed over it quickly. I won’t. Because depersonalization kills the mind. It doesn’t mean just a weary sense of sameness and of life getting dull, it means forgetting who you are and where you stand, it means what we laymen still persist in calling insanity.”

Several pairs of eyes went sharply to him at that word. Gline’s chair creaked as he turned in it. Diskrow laid a hand on the psychiatrist’s sleeve as if to say, “Let him alone—maybe he’s building toward a reverse angle.”

“Why this very real and well-founded dread of depersonalization?” David Cruxon looked around. “I’ll tell you why. It’s not
primarily
the Machine Age, and it’s not
primarily
because life is getting too complex to be easily grasped by any one person—though those are factors. No, it’s because a lot of blinkered Americans, spoonfed a sickeningly sweet verson of existence, are losing touch with the basic facts of life and death, hate and love, good and evil. In particular, due to a lot too much hypno-soothing and suggestion techniques aimed at easy tranquility, they’re losing a conscious sense of the black depths in their own natures—and that’s what’s making them fear depersonalization
and actually making them flip
—and that’s what IU’s Monster-in-You Program is really designed to remedy!”