Robert Scott

Glen Wheatley thanked his lucky stars
for his good fortune every day of his
life ... every day, that is, but one!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The brick smashed through the window and skittered across the top of Glen Wheatley's desk. He had already removed most of the breakables, but it caught a large plastic ash tray and sent it caroming off his cheekbone. A thin trickle of blood crept down his face.

"Good God, aren't they starting a little early this year?" Bert Hillary, who shared Wheatley's office, was obviously not expecting an answer. He had been making it clear for the past hour (they had all got to their desks an hour earlier for this day) that he was an old hand, while this was Glen's first experience of People's Day.

Glen knew that Hillary had been in the Civil Service only five or six years. He himself could hardly be accused of being an expert on the every-four-years Day. Still, he waited for the older man to make the first move.

Hillary got up and peered cautiously out the shattered window. "Yeah, they're already boiling around the outer wall like yeast in a vat. That guy with the brick must have quite a pitching arm." Sweat stood out on his forehead. He was clearly much more frightened than he pretended to be.

Glen noticed this with some satisfaction. At least, he wasn't the only one. "Come on, Wheatley. Us lower-level boys have got to be on the hop. You'd be surprised how fast that mob can get up here."

Glen unfolded the map of Government House that had been placed on his desk that morning. He stared grimly at it, dabbing at his cheek with a rather grubby handkerchief meanwhile. The bleeding did not show any signs of stopping.

Hillary hurried to the door. "Come on!" He was openly nervous now. "It's no good studying that map for safety-holes now. You should have been doing that ever since we got here this morning."

As a matter of fact, Glen had been doing just that, whenever Hillary's flow of words had momentarily run dry. But he had not yet got the location of all the nearby hidden cubbies clearly in his mind. "Government House is such a maze," he said defensively.

"And we're damned lucky it is," Hillary said from the doorway. "Anyway, how do you know that map you've got there isn't just what they've been hawking in People's Square all this past week?" He gave a slightly sick leer.

"You know those maps are inaccurate. They're just a sop, just to give the mob an extra thrill. Government House plants most of them." He could sound like an old hand, too, Glen thought with a certain smugness.

"Nuts to that. Some of them are amazingly accurate. There are a hell of a lot of non-Government people in here from year to year, and some of them aren't here just on business. Let's get going." Hillary pulled Glen through the door, and then locked it. Glen raised his eyebrows at this. "Oh, sure," his co-worker said wryly. "Gives the People something to work off steam on." He patted the flimsy door. "This will cave in under a few hard shoulders. Not like the safety-hole panels. We hope."

"But they don't unlock for another half hour in this area."

"Thirty-eight minutes, to be exact," Hillary said, glancing at his watch. "And of course the ones deeper in and higher up open even later. We're supposed to give them a run for their taxes."

The corridor was emptying out rapidly. Glen could hear smashing noises from the ground floor.

Apparently the People were already in the building, beginning their day of destruction. He thought gratefully of his private apartment, tucked away in the impregnable heart of Government House. Of course, it was closed off to him too on this day; but at least it was safe from the mob. They would get mainly the chaff to destroy.

"I'm heading for the upper levels," Hillary said. "Even if the safeties open later up there, it takes longer for the mob to penetrate. There's enough breakable and burnable stuff at the first few levels to keep them busy for a while. Coming?"

Glen had just seen Joan Bourne emerge from her office and lock the door. He headed toward her. "I'm going to stay near some out-of-the-way safety in this area and hop in when it first opens. I don't feel like running from the People," he called back with a bravado he did not really feel.

"Suit yourself." Hillary was already at the stairs. He paused for a moment. "And good luck."

"Thanks," Glen said. "Good hiding."

Joan had been listening, and met him in the middle of the corridor. "I think you've got the right idea, Glen. Want some company?"

He smiled, and brushed her cheek with his lips. "You know the answer to that, Joan. For life."

"This is hardly the day to bring that up again." She took his arm, and they turned off down a side corridor. "Besides, I thought our relationship was very nice as it is," she pouted.

"It is. I'm just greedy."

The side passageway took them deeper into the labyrinth that was Government House. Glen had hardly ever been out of it. He had been born and brought up in the great central area that surrounded Government Park, now sealed off from both the People and the Civil Servants. Apart from a vacation trip to another city's Government House, this had been Glen's entire world. And two years ago he had passed the Examinations and become a full-fledged CS, with all the privileges—and perils, he was now realizing—that that entailed.

They turned into another corridor, went past a bank of elevators—turned off for the day, as all the elevators were in the official section of the building—and went up a long flight of stairs.

Glen stopped at the third level.

"This looks like as good a spot as any to wait for the first safety-holes to open. It's out of the way. And there's a hole right here, according to the map. It'll be opening in twenty minutes. The mob should be busy down there for longer than that." They located the almost invisible key square, and Glen pressed his Class-6 key to it. "Just on the chance they might have given us a break," he said half apologetically.

"Apparently they haven't," Joan murmured. "Let's see if my Class-5 has any better luck." She pressed her own key to the square, but the panel still refused to slide back. Class-5 shelters in this area were often combined with those for Class-6.

Glen looked at her quizzically. "Joan, we graduated at the same time, and you're already Class-5—Job Consultation—while I'm still Class-6—Secondary School Allocation. How do you do it?"

"Brains, personality and talent. Hadn't you noticed?" She pressed close to him.

He kissed her. "Mmm, yes. But I still don't see...."

"Darling," she said, "Joan Bourne is a young lady destined to go far. And fast."

"You seem so different from the other girls here though, Joan." He blushed. "You didn't happen to come from ... Outside. Er ... from the People, that is?"

"I grew up in Block 6, Section A, overlooking the statue of Martyr Sherman Adams in Government Park. Just two blocks down from you, if I remember your records correctly."

"You've had access to my records?"

"Class-5 always does to Class-6's. And I took a special interest in you, my dear." She stroked his cheek.

"Then you're forgiven the snooping," Glen smiled. "But to think I was being so polite and discreet about asking your origins!"

"Not many take the Exams and come to Civil Service from Outside any more, sweet. Just as not many from here decide to go out and try their luck in the big world. Generally we stay on our side of the fence, and they stay on theirs. Except for the Day, of course. And then it's all one-way traffic."

"But I've heard some CS people go Outside for their vacation. I never have, of course, but...."

"Oh, yes, quite a few do. You're taken in a CS plane to another Government House, where you won't be known in the city outside. You are given appropriate papers and emerge from the House during business hours. You mingle with the People, just like one of them. And when vacation's over, back to the House for Job Consultation or Welfare Benefits or whatever you want to trump up. Show your true papers, and you're whisked back to your own cozy womb." She smiled reminiscently. "Outside is an interesting experience."

This annoyed Glen obscurely. He put his arm around her. "I don't want you going Outside again. At least, not without me."

"Oh, the People are just people. Except for today...."

"Well, well, the Bourne from which no traveler returneth! Hope I'm not interrupting anything, my dear. Anything important, that is." At this unexpected voice, Glen let go of Joan and spun to face the intruder. It was a Class-2 High Official named Duckpath, whom he had heard speak at a few Government banquets. He dropped his fists, which he had unconsciously raised.

"Mustn't be so nervous, young man," Duckpath said, swaying slightly. He was obviously quite drunk. "How are you, Joanie?" He patted her rump affectionately and gave her a smacking kiss. Joan looked both annoyed and amused. Glen flushed, but said nothing.

After a moment of contemplating the new arrival, Joan said, "Well, Ducks, what brings you down to the lower echelons?"

"Oh, pleasure, pleasure, my dear. Wanted to see all the fun and games. Usually pretty dull on top, you know." He winked at her, then cocked an ear. "Sounds like the rabble are getting warmer, too."

Glen listened, and realized he had been hearing all along a dim muttering which was now clearly getting louder. A distinct crash sounded, and he was sure he smelled smoke.

"Come on, Joan," he said, tugging at her arm. "Let's get into the shelter. It must be time now."

"Young man, you are obstreperous, aren't you?" Duckpath interposed himself between Glen and Joan. "Be calm, be calm. As you may know, my key will open any of the lower echelon's shelters, and at any time. Yours is not due to open for five minutes yet, for example, but at the touch of this—" he flashed his Class-2 key—"all barriers will fall before us. And I like the scent of danger. Just the scent, of course. Now—" he motioned to Glen—"if you will just stand by that stairway, you will be able to see them in plenty of time for us all to get into shelter. You two shall be my guests. It will be very cozy." He giggled.

Glen scowled, but did as he was told.

It was true that the stairs were the obvious place for the onslaught. They led both up and down. He assumed Duckpath had come down them, but of course the People were still below, although apparently working their way rapidly to the stairs. The only other way up to this area was through one of the secret passageways, which the mob would not know about.

Another crash echoed up the stairwell, much louder this time. A wisp of smoke curled lazily in the air in front of him.

Glen fingered the caked blood on his cheek. Things he had never questioned before seemed utterly meaningless and cruel now. His irritation with Duckpath bubbled over, and he said sourly, "What madness! This whole procedure is incredibly stupid and wasteful."

Joan glanced at Duckpath with raised eyebrows, but said nothing. That gentleman at first stiffened, then relaxed and said blandly, "I wouldn't criticize the Government too much, my boy. It gives us all we have. And it can take it away also." He smiled. "This is not madness, but sheer sanity. You must have been neglecting your Political Science courses."

"Sanity! It's murder and destruction," Glen muttered.

"You know very well, young man, that all that is being destroyed is easily replaced. Will be replaced tomorrow, in fact. Ours is an opulent, productive society." Duckpath's smile deepened into a smirk. "All the important documents, all the valuables, are safely locked away in the central section. And the good that is being done today!" He became rapturous. "The People are led by us, led by the nose. We decide where they will go to school, where they will live, which job they will get, how many children they may have. Soon we will decide when they are to die. We have the power." His eyes glistened.

"And in return we give them security. The population is balanced, the country productive, the old cared for; there is medical service for all. Everything is arranged for the best by the great complex of Government Houses all over the world. Everything is in the hands of the Government." Duckpath was panting slightly. "Everything is in our hands."

"If everything is so perfect, why this?" Glen gestured toward the cloud of smoke seeping through the entrance to the stairway.

"It's only the office furnishings. The building itself won't burn," Joan murmured.

Duckpath gave her a little squeeze. "Our callow young friend is talking about the hatred, I believe, Joanie. The urge of the People to destroy and kill. Well, it is only natural." He belched softly. "These People are aware that their lives are woven from threads held in Government House. And though they are well cared for, they resent it. They resent having to file into this building and be allocated to this and that. They want someone to take care of them, but they resent their loss of freedom. They resent our power.

"So this is their day. It comes once every four years. The day that gives them the illusion that they have some control over us, the day of Mob Rule. This is the day they can express all their locked-up frustrations, all their fury at the State which feeds and clothes them and watches over them. They can batter down and smash and burn." Duckpath stared at Glen and seemed to sober a little. "Yes, they can even kill. They cannot bring guns or knives here, but they can use fire and fists and stones. And that is even better for boiling away their hostilities. The hotheads among the People will go so far as to kill, and that will cool them. But they will get only the fumble-fingered and feeble-witted. The rest will take care of themselves." He paused for a moment, breathless. "Do you realize we haven't had even the sniff of a revolution in four hundred years? No civil strife at all. No change of any kind." He laughed. "This is Sheep's Day ... their day to be wolves."

"Glen, you'd better watch the stairs," Joan said, her face taut.

Glen started. Duckpath's harangue had distracted him, and somehow chilled him too. He peered down the stairwell. There were People at the end of the lower corridor, milling around and shouting.

"We've got to get to shelter," he said, hurrying toward Joan.

Duckpath began to talk again. "This is nothing new. The Romans had a word for it, and a day for it, too. A day when the laws were abandoned and society was turned upside down. A day when the people cast off the bonds of civilization and order. A day of Misrule. They even had a King of Misrule. I rather like that. I might be such a King." He struck a pose. "King of Misrule!" He turned with a grand gesture to Joan. "And you are my...."

A rock crashed against the side of his head. Another exploded on the wall next to Glen.

"The secret passageways, Glen!" Joan screamed. "They've come up the other way. The maps must have been accurate this time."

There was a knot of men at the far bend of the corridor. They carried torches, and clumps of stones in sacks at their waists. Obviously they were not the dilettantes of People's Day. They were after more than the crash of furniture.

"Get the dame, boys!" one of them yelled. They charged forward. Duckpath was lying across the entrance to the shelter, and the mob was almost on him.

"We've got to take the stairway, Joan!" Glen cried, fumbling at her arm.

"His key, his key!" She knelt beside Duckpath and pulled the key out of his hand. The High Official stirred, but did not speak. An amazing amount of blood had already accumulated on the floor around him.

A brick grazed Glen's shoulder, sending him spinning toward the stairway. Joan rushed after him, and they pounded the stairs together. "I can get in anywhere with this," she gasped, holding up the key.

Presumably the half-conscious Duckpath had made the oncoming men pause. Ripping sounds could be heard, and a horrible strangled cry. They were relieving the High Official of his personal belongings—and probably of his life.

But the People from the floor below were now surging up the stairs, joined by four men from the crowd that had first seen Joan. "Get the dame! Government meat!" The cry came booming up to Glen and Joan.

They stumbled into the corridor at the next landing, realizing they would never make it up the next flight before the mob reached them. They were both fumbling with their maps. "There's a small Class-3 right around here," Joan waved her map in his face. She raced along the wall for a few yards and then clapped Duckpath's key to it. A panel slid back and she slipped inside. "Thank God!" She glanced around her. "Darling, it's only a single. Too bad."

There was obviously no room for another person, Glen saw with dismay. Joan and the air-freshening apparatus took up all the space.

"Hurry and find another, sweets." She pitched him the Class-2 key, and blew him a kiss as the door slid shut. It would open again only after sundown, when People's Day was officially over.

A mass of screaming People burst from the stairway, and raised a great shout on seeing Glen. He dashed down the corridor, turned left, and then turned right at the next passageway. He was in a long corridor ending in a large window opening on the outside.

Glen squinted at his map through eyes that refused to focus. He suddenly realized they were streaming with tears.

There was a Class-4 shelter several paces along on the left. He rushed to it and pressed the High Official's key to the square. A dim red light glowed through the plastic of the key. Full.

He pounded on the panel. Of course it was soundproof. Of course the shelter was full of wise Civil Servants. Only the fumble-fingered and the feeble-witted, only the chaff....

The People came pouring around the corner as Glen backed toward the end of the corridor. A stone sang past him and smashed through the window. Another caught him in the ribs. He backed faster, now completely blinded by tears. The growl of hatred from the mob grew louder. A heavy blow struck his collarbone and he lurched backward. His knees caught, and then he was flipping over. Out and down.

He sailed through the air.

The pressure of the mob was gone. There was no time to think. There was just an exhilarating sense of flight, of space, of freedom.

Editorial from the Albany Evening Star: