Time Will Run Back (13 page)

“Maybe because it isn’t so,” Peter suggested.

“What!”

Bolshekov’s eyes seemed to flash green fire.

“Well, of course,” Peter continued, “everything you say is perfectly true when you look at the problem
collectively,
as you do. But it isn’t true for the
individual
(if I may coin a word), when he looks at it from
his
point of view. You say that everybody is now working for everybody else. Isn’t that just the trouble—that nobody is now working for
himself?’’

“For daring to express one tenth of such heresy, any other man would be sent to a concentration camp,” warned Bolshekov. “Does No. 1 know that you hold such views?”

“Just bear with me a moment. I am trying to help you solve a problem that you admit baffles you,” said Peter with conscious courage. “The individual is told that if he increases
his
output he will, other things being equal, increase
total
output. Mathematically, of course, he must recognize that this is so. But mathematically he senses, also, that his own contribution can have only an infinitesimal relationship to his own welfare. He knows that even if he personally worked like a galley slave, and nobody else worked, he would still starve. And he knows also, on the other hand, that if
everybody else
worked like a galley slave, and
he
did
nothing,
or only made the motions of working when somebody was watching him, he would live like a commissar—I mean, like a king.... I have been reading about kings in the histories you recommended.”

“But he knows, No. 13, that if
everybody
stopped working he would starve. He knows that if
everybody
only made the motions of working, and then only when being watched, there would be universal starvation, while if
everybody
worked, even when no one was egging him on, there would be plenty to be shared among all.”

“I know all that, No. 2,” persisted Peter. “And
he
knows all that—as an abstract proposition, or when he looks at it from
your
standpoint as Commissar of Production—or when he looks at it collectively. And apparently some people do. But not, I fear—from what I have observed—the majority. When we consider the majority, I’m afraid, each person tends to look at the matter most of the time from his
own
standpoint. Maybe he can make occasional sacrifices for the good of the whole for brief intervals. But year in and year out? Well, let’s figure it.

What is the population of Wonworld?”

“About a billion.”

“A billion. Then say I am a worker and by back-breaking work I
double
my production. If my previous production was average, I have increased Won-world’s
total
production by only
one billionth.
This means that I personally, assuming equal distribution, get only
one billionth
more to eat, in spite of my terrific effort. I could never even notice such an increase. On the other hand, suppose, without getting caught, I don’t work at all. Then I get only one billionth less to eat. The deprivation is so infinitesimal that again I would be unable to notice it. But think of all the work I would save!”

A tiny cloud of doubt seemed to drift across Bolshekov’s brow.

“This talk of billionths is unreal,” he said finally. “It assumes that we could make a mathematically exact distribution of goods throughout Wonworld.”

“Then let’s reduce it to a smaller scale,” said Peter. “Suppose you had an isolated collective farm with 100 workers. You assigned each worker a particular segment of land to work on, and they raised an average of 100 potatoes per man per year. They would then collectively produce 10,000 potatoes a year, and each worker would receive a ration of 100 potatoes a year regardless of his particular production. That wouldn’t be enough to live on; so they would all urge each other to work twice as hard and raise twice as much. Now suppose conditions are such that there is no constant or effective way of supervising a particular man’s work or measuring his particular contribution to the total output. And suppose each man knows that his particular contribution cannot be calculated or checked by a supervisor? Yet suppose one worker—let’s call him A—because of his social conscience doubles his number of hours or intensity of work and increases his own production from the 100 potatoes previously raised to 200 potatoes. The others, however, let us say, raise the same 100 potatoes as before. At the end of the year there are now 10,100 potatoes to distribute—equally—‘according to need.’ So instead of getting 100 potatoes, A, as a result of doubling his own output, now gets 101 potatoes—just one more potato.”

“You assume an impossible situation in which only one man in a hundred has any mass consciousness.”

“All right. Let’s reverse the situation. Suppose
everybody else,
through mass consciousness, doubles his output of potatoes but that A, realizing that the others are going to do this, can loaf undetected and produce no potatoes at all. Then the total number of potatoes produced on the farm is 19,800. And when these are equally distributed, ‘according to need,’ A—who has now produced nothing—none the less gets 198 potatoes, or almost twice as many as when he was working.”

“And your conclusion?”

“My conclusion is that under these conditions a man’s output, or the intensity of his effort, will be determined not by some abstract, overall, collectivist consideration but mainly by his assumption regarding what
everybody else
is doing or is going to do. He will be willing ‘to do his share’; but he’ll be hanged before he’ll break his back to produce while others are loafing, because he knows it will get him nowhere. And he is prone to be a little generous in measuring how hard he himself is working and a little cynical in estimating how hard everybody else is working. He is apt to cite the very worst among his co-workers as typical of what ‘others’ do while he slaves. All this may be why your exhortations based on collectivist considerations are so ineffective.”

Bolshekov looked troubled. He seemed to have no immediate answer. Peter pursued his advantage: “Let’s say I’m an unusual person, a sort of worker genius, and that if I strained all my faculties I could actually turn out ten times as much production as the average worker. But I turn out only 50 per cent more than the average, and yet get praised for doing it—because I am above average. Why should I be so foolish as to show the authorities what I could really do? I wouldn’t live any better. I wouldn’t get any more ration tickets than the next man. But once I had shown my capacity, my superiors would hold me up to its continuation—on the principle of ‘from each according to his ability.’ Therefore I find it wiser never to reveal my ability. Therefore nobody ever discovers that I am not producing according to my ability. Never having put it to a strain, in fact, I never even find out myself what my real ability is.”

“This is heresy,” said Bolshekov. “I shall turn over as a full-time assignment to one of my subordinates the task of drafting an answer to it. The answer will be, of course, for my and your eyes alone.”

“Why such secrecy?”

“We are never foolish enough to answer criticisms that no one has yet thought of. We merely prepare such answers ready for use.”

“But what of the problem that’s worrying you?” persisted Peter. “Maybe my criticism goes deeper than we started by supposing. Perhaps—perhaps the aim ‘to each according to his needs’ is the very thing that prevents us from ever getting ‘from each according to his abilities?’ “

“But everyone, No. 13,
ought
to work to the peak of his abilities! It’s his
duty
to work to the peak of his abilities! Why shouldn’t he? He’s no longer being exploited by a master class!”

“But what he really fears under our present system, No. 2, is that he is being exploited by the slackness or malingering of his fellow workers. And perhaps his suspicions of others arise from his knowledge that he himself is secretly trying to exploit them by his own slackness or malingering—”

“Your subversive arguments prove what I have always contended,” said Bolshekov; “that unless everyone is conditioned to communism from infancy, such skepticism and heresies are bound to arise. It was a dangerous thing No. 1 did when he allowed you to get this miseducation!”

Peter felt it wise to shift the subject again. “There is something that puzzles me about your description of our system of distribution,” he resumed. “You speak of equal distribution. But I haven’t noticed this equality. The Protectorate, for example, to which I now have the honor to belong, gets more—”

“I did speak of equal distribution,” said Bolshekov, “but I also spoke of ‘to each according to his
needs!
Now wherever there isn’t enough of something to go around, it’s this second principle that governs. We can only turn out a few automobiles, for example, and all of these are needed for the commissars and other members of the Protectorate. They need these to get around; they need these to do their work properly—to fulfill their functions. We may think of these as capital goods rather than consumption goods. They are the tools that we members of the Protectorate need to carry out our functions properly.”

“But since I have been a Protector,” said Peter, “not to speak of conditions since I have been a member of the Politburo—
I
haven’t been getting just the food stamped on these ration cards. I have been getting much better bread and beans, incomparably better coffee, and-—”

“Except when there is a very severe shortage,” said Bolshekov, “we can try to distribute equally in
quantity.
But it’s impossible to have equal distribution in
quality.
Some beans or chickens or what-not will inevitably have a better flavor than others. The Protectors may as well get them.”

“But the Protectors get broccoli and beef and caviar,” said Peter, “and the masses, the Proletarians, never get them at all.”

“We simply can’t produce enough broccoli and beef and caviar for everybody. We can only produce a limited amount. And that amount necessarily has to go just to a small group. We can’t distribute one cubic inch of beef or a single tiny caviar pellet to everybody just to make a fetish of equal distribution. So why not reserve it for the Protectors, who need to be kept in full health and vigor and whose morale needs especially to be kept up, so that they can carry out their especially arduous directive functions? For the same reason the Protectors get the best living quarters and more and better suits, of a distinctive color. We must encourage people to want to get into the Protectorate. We must provide...”

“Incentives?” asked Peter shrewdly. “But that’s just what I’m trying to say. Why can’t we provide incentives for
everybody?
Why can’t we provide
graded
incentives, so that each man within his own abilities, however high or low in the scale those abilities might be, would have a direct incentive for putting forth
his
best efforts? Suppose his abilities were such that he could never hope to be a Protector, but that he
could
hope to be just a little better off if he put forth his best efforts—”

“I think, No. 13,” interrupted Bolshekov sarcastically, “that before suggesting all these reforms of our system you might wait until you have at least learned how the system works. After all, it is the product of our best minds. All our arrangements are passed upon by the Central Planning Board and by the Supreme Economic Council, both of which I head, and by the Congress of Coordinators, over which I also preside. And yet you, who did not even know what the system was a few short months ago-”

Bolshekov’s words were much milder than the threat in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter humbly. “I will strive to learn.”

THE pounding on the door grew louder.

Edith woke up, her heart racing. She pulled on her slacks in the darkness, then turned on the light. The pounding was repeated, this time apparently with the butt of a revolver. She opened the door.

Three members of the Security Police stood outside.

“L—92?” asked the officer.

Edith nodded.

“You’re under arrest.”

Maxwell had come to the door.

“EN—57? You’re under arrest.”

Neither asked why. No one ever asked why.

“Have I time to shave?” asked Maxwell.

“You have five minutes to dress.”

From behind the curtain on the other side of the room, Edith noticed the white frightened face of the three-year-old boy. As she put on her one luxury, a wrist watch, she noticed the time: quarter of three.

They were led down the dark stairs to the street. A Black Maria stood waiting. As they sat on its hard benches they were blindfolded with black kerchiefs. It started off.

They could not see each other; they dared not speak. But each knew what the other was thinking. They were thinking of Edith’s mother, Helen. She had been a teacher in a nursery. One day, two years ago, she had not come home. No one at the nursery would tell them anything; no one could even remember whether she had been there that day or not. The police told them nothing, and marked it against them that they had asked.

After the first few days they had never spoken to each other about Edith’s mother. Speculation about her fate, if she was still alive, was more self-torturing than the assumption that she was dead.

The Black Maria stopped. Edith was led out, still blindfolded. She heard the Black Maria start off again. She was led up some steps, and apparently through two doors. She was aware of light underneath her blindfold. The blindfold was taken off.

She found herself in a woman’s jail.

She was registered, fingerprinted, and taken to a cell. It was about six feet by nine, with a single narrow bed. There were five women in the cell, three of them crowded on the bed, the other two lying on the floor. Several wakened when the light was switched on, and looked sleepily and angrily at the new prisoner who was going to crowd them up still more. The matron pushed Edith in, locked the iron grating door, and switched off the light again.