Level 7

it takes the ridiculously anachronistic form of limited hostilities.

The screen-map is divided into three zones, separated by thin lines. These zones have been determined by then-distance from our rocket bases. The nearest one is called Zone A, the next one B, and the farthest one C.

There are two chairs in the room, equidistant from the screen and facing it at a convenient angle, one from the right and the other from the left. In front of each chair is a little table, and on each table stands what might be mistaken for a little typewriter or an adding-machine. In fact this gadget is the nucleus of the room and the sole reason for my being down here on Level 7.

On the gadget are three rows of four buttons. The front row, nearest the operator, covers enemy Zone A; the middle row Zone B; and the third row Zone C, the most distant. Each set of buttons controls a different type of destructive weapon—all of them long-range atomic rockets, of course. Buttons 1 control batteries of rockets with warheads the equivalent of one to five megaton bombs, which explodeon touching the ground. This is an efficient means of destroying heavy and concentrated installations, military or industrial. The rocket-bombs controlled by the second set of buttons are much more powerful—ten to fifty megatons—and are designed to explode in the air, causing widespread destruction over big cities and heavily populated areas. Rockets of similar power, but constructed in such a way as to penetrate deep underground before exploding, are released by Buttons 3. The effect of these would be rather like that of an earthquake as far as destruction on the surface goes, and they would severely damage underground installations. Also they would produce a fair amount of lethal radiation, but this is more specially the task of the rockets controlled by the fourth set of buttons. These are ‘rigged’ atomic bombs; that is to say, bombs which are cased in a shell made of a potentially highly radioactive element. The bursting of the bombs would pulverise these shells into a fine, pervasive and strongly radioactive dust. This kind of weapon, which destroys life not only by heat, blast and shock, but by radiation, is in a way the most deadly of all. Its effects may last for a long time.

Each of the twelve buttons would release several thousands of otherwise electronically controlled and guided missiles, every one of them aimed at a pre-determined target. They would hit the enemy within anything from fifteen minutes to an hour from when the button was pushed.

All this may sound rather complicated, but it is really very simple. My ‘typewriter’ looks like this:

As a matter of fact, it is not all that important to know exactly what the buttons do, because the orders would be quite explicit: ‘Push Button A1,’ or ‘Push Button B3’, or ‘Push Button C2’. It is not certain whether Buttons 4 would actually be used. Some people have said they might prove dangerous even to the country using them.

All kinds of orders come through the loudspeaker; but to indicate that a push-button order is on the way there is in addition a visual warning system. First, a yellow lamp above the screen would light up to alert us. Then, a red lamp, if the yellow one was not a false alarm; and as soon as the red light came on we could expect our orders.

As a precaution against any officer who might push a button by accident, or because he had taken leave of his senses, or for any other reason, the system will only work if two people push the same button at the same time. This is the reason for the second chair, table and identical control box in the Operations Room. The two controls are far enough apart to stop one man pushing both the buttons at once. In case of emergency a second officer will be summoned into the room, and the two men will together execute the orders which come from the loud-speaker, sanctioned by the red light.

The two officers will be able to watch the results of their actions. As I said, the enemy targets are marked on the screen. If Button A1, say, is pressed, off go the one-to-five megaton rocket-bombs to Zone A in the enemy’s territory. Their release will be signalled by the appearance of red points in the little circles on the map which show the appropriate Zone A targets. When the rockets actually hit their targets the red marks will expand to cover the areas destroyed. If they should fail to reach the targets—because of interception by the enemy, or some accident—then the red points will disappear again.

Buttons 2, 3 and 4 produce similar effects, in blue, yellow and black respectively.

Obviously the idea is to use the less destructive rockets first, and to resort to those causing widespread damage and death later on if the more limited weapons prove ineffective. However, my colleagues and I do not decide when to push the button, or which one to push. Our job is just to keep watch and, if and when the time comes, to do what the loudspeaker tells us. Our potential productive work is limited to the pushing of twelve buttons, twelve keys in a peculiar sort of typewriter. When we have done this our country’s arsenal of offensive weapons will have been exhausted; but the other half of the world will have been completely destroyed.

MARCH 23

“Why the hell did they pick me for training as a pushbutton officer? Why couldn’t they choose somebody else? Our CO. back in the camp, for example—he might have enjoyed it. Why pick on me?”

Apparently I must have spoken these thoughts out loud earlier this evening, for I received an unexpected answer—from the loudspeaker. There must be a system of supervision which enables the command to hear what we say even in the ‘privacy’ of our rooms.

The loudspeaker—it was a woman’s voice—spoke softly: “You were chosen because of your personal qualities. You must have proved to be a man of stable disposition, technically skilful, ambitious, intelligent and very healthy. Also you must have got a very high score in claustrophobia tests.”

That was all. The loudspeaker went silent again. I was eager to continue the conversation and asked some question, but I got no answer. Either the woman was laconically inclined, or she had to speak to someone else.

For a moment this event made me forget my meditations. Then I resumed them.

The woman was right: I was ambitious, and that was what has made me accept the offer of training. I was only a private at the time. Suddenly, after I had undergone (without in the least knowing why) a long series of medical, psychological and psychotechnical tests, I was offered immediate promotion to the rank of lieutenant, with excellent ‘special’ pay and allowances and prospects of further advancement after training. The job sounded attractive—it seemed to have something to do with gadgets, which I had always liked—and moreover it was stressed as being of the utmost importance. I jumped at it.

Perhaps if I were more sensitive I would have hesitated before signing a declaration which committed me to absolute secrecy about things which I was going to learn and whose nature was quite mysterious to me at the time. A more sensitive person might have been scared by the unknown; but I had scored very high in the test for emotional stability.

I dare say a more sensitive person would go mad living down here without a hope of getting out. So that is why they chose me! All right, but I do not consider that that is any guarantee that I shall not go mad myself.

I might be better off now if I had been just unstable enough to fail all those tests they gave me. Some people do not seem to mind the life down here, though. That woman on the loudspeaker sounds as if she takes it all in her stride.

MARCH 24

Today I had a nice talk with X-107, the comrade-in-buttons with whom I share my room. We had exchanged a few words before, of course; but I did not feel like entering into a lengthy conversation until today. I was too much preoccupied with my new situation. The idea that I was to stay on Level 7 for the rest of my days hammered in my head all the time, and other people—my neighbours at meals, my old fellow-trainee X-137, my new partner here in the room—seemed hardly to exist. I saw them as mere shades of the underworld, and made more contact—I might even say social contact—with the sheets of paper on which I was writing my diary. They were the intimate witnesses of my innermost feelings, the sharers of my new experiences.