Cities in Flight

until the year 2019.

“But Dr. Braziller, why isn’t it enough to see that they made a mistake? We know that now. Why repeat it?”

“Because that’s what all these great men have labored toward: so that you could do it right, yourself. Up until about the thirteenth century, nobody in the world except a few dedicated scholars could do long division; then Fibonacci introduced the Arabic numbers to the West. Now, any idiot can do what it took a great mind to do in those days. Are you going to complain that because Fibonacci found a better way to do long division, you shouldn’t be required to learn why it’s better? Or that because a great inventor like Locke didn’t understand dimensional analysis, you should be allowed to be just as ignorant, after all these years? They spent their lives making things simple for you that were enormously difficult for them, and until you understand the difficulties, you can’t possibly understand the simplifications. Go back to the blackboard and try again.”

Being in a “live” class had its compensations, though; and one of these was Piggy Kingston-Throop. Piggy—his real name was George, but nobody ever called him that, not even Dr. Braziller—was not much of a prize as a friend and companion, but he was the only member of the small class who was exactly Chris’s age; all the others were much younger. From this Chris deduced that Piggy was not a student, which turned out to be true.

Piggy seemed glad enough to encounter someone who was as retarded as he was, whatever the reasons, and who knew less than he did about a great many subjects which were commonplaces to him. And in many ways he was quite a pleasant sort of fellow; blond, plump and affable, with a ready wit and a tendency to be unimpressed by almost everything that other people considered important. In this last, he made a particularly good foil for Chris, who in his ignorance and in the strangeness of his situation often could not help but be earnest to the point of grimness over what later turned out to be trivia.

Not that Chris allowed these differences over value judgments always to be resolved in Piggy’s favor; they quarreled over them almost from the beginning. The first of these tangles, which soon proved to be a model for the others, involved the subject of the antiagathic drugs.

“You’re going to be a citizen, aren’t you, Piggy?”

“Oh, sure. I’m all set.”

“I wish I were. My trouble is, I don’t even know what I want to do—let alone what I’m good at.”

Piggy turned and stared at him. They had paused on the way from school on the Tudor Tower Place bridge leading over 42nd Street. Long ago, the view from here across First Avenue to the East River had been blocked by the UN Building, but that had been demolished during the Terror, and there was nothing to mark where it had stood but a plaza; and on the far side of that, starry space itself.

“What do you mean, do?” Piggy said. “Oh, maybe you’ll have a little trouble, what with not having been born here. But there’s ways around that. Don’t believe everything they tell you.”

Like many of the things Piggy said, fully 80 per cent of this speech meant nothing to Chris. In self-defense, he could do nothing but answer the question. “You know all this better than I do. But the laws do say pretty clearly that a man has to be good for something before he’s allowed to become a citizen and be started on the drug treatments. Let’s see; there are supposed to be three ways to go about it; and I ought to have them straight, because I just had them put into my head a few days ago.”

He concentrated a moment. He had discovered a useful trick for dredging up the information which had been implanted in his mind from the memory cells: If he half closed his eyes and imagined the grey gas, in a moment he would begin to feel, at least in retrospect, the same somnolence under which the original facts had been imparted, and they would come back in very much the same words. It worked equally well this time; almost at once, he heard his own voice saying, in a curious monotone imitation of the City Fathers:

“‘There are three general qualifications for citizenship. They are: (1) Display of some obviously useful talent, such as computer programming, administration, or another gift worth retaining, as opposed to depending upon the accidents of birth to provide new such men for each succeeding generation; (2) a demonstrable bent toward any intellectual field, including scientific research, the arts and philosophy, since in these fields one lifetime is seldom enough to attain masterhood, let alone put it to the best use; and (3) passage of the Citizenship Tests, which are designed to reveal reserves and potentials in the late-maturing eighteen-year-old whose achievement record is unimpressive.’ No matter how you slice it, it doesn’t sound easy!”

“That’s only what the City Fathers say,” Piggy said scornfully. “What do they know about it? They’re only a bunch of machines. They don’t know anything about people. Those rules don’t even make sense.”

“They make sense to me,” Chris objected. “It’s a cinch the antiagathics can’t be given to everybody—from what I hear, they’re scarcer than germanium. On Scranton, the big boss wouldn’t even allow them to be mentioned in public. So there’s got to be some way of picking who gets them and who doesn’t.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, to begin with, because a city is like an island—an island in the middle of the biggest ocean you can think of, and then some. Nobody can get on, and nobody can get off, except for a couple of guys now and then. If everybody gets this drug and lives forever, pretty soon the place is going to be so crowded that we’ll all be standing on each other’s feet.”

“Ah, cut it out. Look around you. Are we all standing on each other’s feet?”

“No, but that’s because the drugs are restricted, and because not everybody’s allowed to have children, either. For that matter, look at you, Piggy—your father and your mother are both big wheels on this town, but you’re an only child, and furthermore, the first one they’ve been allowed to have in a hundred and fifty years.”

“Leave them out of this,” Piggy growled. “They didn’t play their cards right, I’ll tell you that. But that’s none of your business.”

“All right. Take me, then. Unless I turn out to be good for something before I’m eighteen—and I can’t think what it would be—I won’t be a citizen and I won’t get the drugs. Or even if I do get to be a citizen, say by passing the Tests, I’ll still have to prove myself useful stock before I’m allowed to have even one kid of my own. That’s just the way it has to be when the population has to be kept stable; it’s simple economics, Piggy, and there’s a subject I think I know something about.”

Piggy spat reflectively over the railing, though it was hard to tell whether or not he was expressing an opinion, and if so, whether it referred to economics alone or to the entire argument. “All right, then,” he said. “Suppose you get the drugs, and they let you have a kid. Why shouldn’t they give the kid the drugs too?”

“Why should they, unless he qualifies?”

“Boy, you are dumb! That’s what the Citizenship Tests are for, can’t you see that? They’re an out—an escape hatch, a dodge—and that’s all they are. If you don’t get in any other way, you get in that way. At least you do if you’ve got any sort of connections. If you’re a nobody, maybe the City Fathers rig the Tests against you—that’s likely enough. But if you’re a somebody, they’re not going to be too tough. If they are, my father can fix their wagon—he programs ’em. But either way, there’s no way to study for the Tests, so they’re obviously a sell.”

Chris was shaken, but he said doggedly: “But they’re not supposed to be that kind of test at all. I mean, they’re not supposed to show whether or not you’re good at dimensional analysis, or history, or some other subject. They’re supposed to show up gifts that you were born with, not anything that you got through schooling or training.”

“Spindizzy whistle. A test you can’t study for is a test you can’t pass unless it’s rigged—otherwise it doesn’t make any sense at all. Listen, Red, if you’re so sold on this idea that everybody who gets to take the drugs has to be a big brain, what about the guardian they handed you over to? He’s got no kids of his own, and he’s nothing but a cop … but he’s almost as old as the Mayor!”

Up to now, Chris had felt vaguely that he had been holding his own; but this was like a blow in the face.

Chris had originally been alarmed to find that his ID card assigned him lodgings with a family, and horrified when the assignment number turned out to belong to Sgt. Anderson. His first few weeks in the Andersons’ apartment—it was in the part of the city once called Chelsea—were prickly with suspicion, disguised poorly by as much formality as his social inexperience would allow.

It soon became impossible, however, to continue believing that the perimeter sergeant was an ogre; and his wife, Carla, was as warm and gracious a woman as Chris had ever met. They were childless, and could not have welcomed Chris more whole-heartedly had he been one of their own. Furthermore, as the City Fathers had of course calculated, Anderson was the ideal guardian for a brand-new young passenger, for few people, even the Mayor, knew the city better.