Then he said, with tolerance: “What rot. We’d have heard. Revolts! Murders! Retreats! Yes, I know about our eight men who were killed, but that’s always happening.”
He smiled at his men, but none smiled back. A sudden and profound tension filled the room. Grandon was holding his cigaret in his fingers, and he was examining Durant with a slight and inscrutable smile. He said: “Of course, the colonel is right.”
“If those things are going on in other Sections, which I doubt, our own Section is quiet,” said Durant.
Grandon contemplated his cigaret. “The colonel would know, of course, if it’s true that two steel mills were blown sky-high in Pittsburgh last Tuesday? And that in Harrisburg, on Wednesday, a mob stormed the military prison there and released all the inmates, one hundred and fifty of them?”
Durant laughed, with ridicule. Grandon gave him a faint smile, and went on: “And that three subway trains, filled with troops, were wrecked in Brooklyn with a loss of two hundred lives—last Friday? Of course,” added Grandon, “it couldn’t have been sabotage, and probably didn’t happen, anyway.”
“Of course it didn’t. None of it,” said Durant. “By the way, where do you boys pick up these tidbits, when you’re supposed to be working?”
“Remember, Colonel, we went to a party the other night?” said Edwards. “We heard from there. It was Mr. Judson’s party, and he’s a big MAST, you know. He was scared out of his pants. He had all these rumors on good authority, he said, and the other men, friends of his, just sat and drank and said nothing.”
“What did Mr. Judson expect us to do about these rumors?” demanded Durant impatiently. “And what were you boys doing there, anyhow? I thought we were all persona non grata.”
Edwards explained. “It’s true they’ve not been inviting us very much since you came, Colonel.” He grinned. “And I suppose they invited us the other night because they were frightened and wanted protection. They’ve always had a military escort, you know, until you took it away this summer, and they want it back.”
“They’ll not get it,” scoffed Durant. “If they want to frighen themselves with ridiculous rumors, that is their affair, not ours.” He let his eyes wander slowly from face to face. “You say Judson and his friends were frightened? I thought, from reports, that they were being pretty arrogant lately.”
“They have been,” admitted Edwards. “It’s just lately that they’ve been frightened. I don’t know why, unless they’ve got reason to believe the rumors.”
John Lincoln came into the room, dressed for his own excursion into the city. He carried a lighted cigar in his hand, and Durant stared at him in surprise. For Lincoln was no longer the farmer he had cowed and browbeaten, slinking away from the very sight of the hated Military. He wore a fur-lined overcoat over his suit of fine tweeds, and he did not remove his hat nor did he even touch it with his gloved fingers. Urbane, glinting of eye, distant, he said to Durant: “You sent for me, Colonel?”
“Yes.” Durant added: “Take off your hat, Lincoln.”
Lincoln smiled, his ruddy face amused. “Sorry, Colonel.” And he removed his hat and held it negligently. “My wife and I are going into the city. I understand you are to speak, and we’re very anxious to hear you.” He smiled again. Something was indeed amusing him; he returned stare for stare with Durant, and he put his cigar between his lips very tranquilly, and puffed. “Heard someone tried to shoot you the other night,” he remarked, as if unaware of the silence about him. “One of your Guards, Colonel?”
“No,” replied Durant tightly. “One of my Guards committed suicide. Temperamental young fellow.”
“Too bad,” remarked Lincoln. He looked at his watch, coughed. “I hope the colonel has been take care of in my house.” Now his cold eyes fixed themselves on Durant with secret triumph, and hate.
“Where’s your son, Bob?” asked Durant absently. He had seen what he had desired to see, but it was hard not to get up and smash this fat rascal in the teeth.
“Bob?” Lincoln was all geniality. “Sorry, Colonel, I don’t know. He, as you said, was temperamental, too.” He sighed. “How he can get along without his ration cards and such is something I don’t know, either. But I suppose he’ll be back one of these days.”
He set his hat on his head again, lifted a hand amiably, and left the room without permission. The officers and the Picked Guard gaped after him, then looked in outrage at Durant. But Durant laughed, and got to his feet. “You see, boys, you do your best with trash like that and they just bounce back in your face. Perhaps we’ve been too lenient with them lately.”
They all went out into the brilliant snow of the winter day, and got into their cars. The roads had been well plowed, and the wheels of the cars hissed on the packed snow and blew up shining clouds. Durant sat in deep thought, trying to quell his nervousness and anxiety. He thought of Dean Burgess, head of the Confederated Association of Labor Unions, and Howard Regis, head of the national FBHS. What were they like, these sinister men? No photographs of officials in Washington were permitted in the newspapers, and had not been so permitted for years. And what were these very important men doing in Philadelphia today? National officials usually accompanied the President to New York on December twenty-fifth for the celebrations. One in Philadelphia would have been enough of an “honor” on Democracy Day, but two, and one of them the head of the FBHS, seemed ominous. It was quite in order for Burgess to address labor, at any time; however, Regis was another matter. Durant thought of the deadly Hugo Reynolds, and began to shake again.
The car rolled on, driven by Tom Griffis. All the Picked Guards were very quiet. They held their guns ready and looked alertly through the windows at the dazzling countryside. Each young face was hard in the pure light. When the car reached the suburbs the wariness of the Guards increased, and they sat on the edge of their seats.
“You make me nervous,” remarked Durant. They did not reply, but their eyes darted everywhere.
Now Durant became aware, as the car rolled into the city proper, of an immense strange silence. The old houses stood huddled under their layers of snow, but the streets were empty. Of course, it was extremely cold, but not to see a single civilian was in some way alarming. Groups of soldiers clustered together at intersections, holding their rifles, their heads bent together, not patrolling as usual. Not a face appeared at any blank window, not a child’s voice could be heard. The sun poured down its strong and colorless light on a city that had the aspect of death.
Durant’s car slowed to permit the one carrying the executive officers to draw closer. The soldiers at the intersections looked up, staring blankly, and Durant saw fear in their eyes even while they made a gesture of salute. The men did not separate hurriedly and start to patrol at the sight of their officers; one or two of them aimlessly took a few steps away from their groups and then returned as if for protection. Durant looked back at them as he passed; they were glancing over their shoulders furtively, and clutching their rifles. There was no mistaking their terror.
However, as they approached the Philadelphia Sports Stadium, civilians appeared, first a few, then in groups, then in a dark and shabby wave moving in the direction of the Stadium. They were completely silent; the snow-covered walks and streets muffled their footsteps. They kept their heads bent as they flowed along under the sun. It was an eerie thing to see; it was like moving in a world from which all sound had been sucked away. The intense stillness made Durant’s ears ring, and he experienced a shock of uncontrollable panic. He tried to see the faces of the people on the streets, but they were averted, caught in some somber dream of their own. He was immensely relieved when the bright cars of the privileged began to flash beside him and ahead of him. They might not make any noise on the snow but at least they broke the awful spell of the soundless city.
Now more and more official cars appeared and the streets near the Stadium took on a busy and reassuring air. The river of civilians poured across intersections, gathering tributaries from cross-
streets. Soldiers patrolled here almost briskly, watching constantly. The people did not glance at them even for an instant. It was as if they were completely unaware of anything except their own thoughts, or as if they were deliberately ignoring the Military. Foreboding filled Durant. He saw no children at all. He understood that children were not permitted in the Stadium on Democracy Day, and that each industry sent chosen men and women to represent it during the celebrations. However, not all these people were going to the Stadium, which held about ten thousand seats. Most of them were going—where? If only there were a few kids around, thought Durant.
As they approached the Stadium, whose huge bulk loomed against the pale blue sky, he saw where the people were going. They were gathering themselves in utter silence about the Stadium; they were filling the adjacent streets. They stood in mute ranks, men and women both, not looking at a neighbor, their faces frozen and expressionless, bodies wrapped in worn and tattered garments, the women’s heads covered by old kerchiefs. Durant remembered that the public address system was devised so that those outside the Stadium could hear the speeches of the President and others. But it was so bitterly cold, and there was no pressure on the people to gather for these speeches near the Stadium. They had their own meeting-places, provided by the State, where they could hear the broadcast.
They seemed to be gathering for a terrible reason of their own. Some signal had gone out to tens of thousands; an unheard voice had summoned them.
There they stood, banked together on the streets, motionless, staring inexorably before them. Here, at the Stadium, the soldiers patrolled very briskly, indeed. Some of them almost ran. They herded the people on the sidewalks; they kept an open place near the monster doors for the entry of the elite and those chosen to fill the seats. The people ignored the soldiers; if the soldiers pushed, they stepped back absently, then flowed outward again. New streams joined the massive ranks, stood shoulder to shoulder, obeying the ancient and compelling voice of the herd. The soldiers could not keep to the sidewalks; they had to patrol on the pavements below. They were pale and tense, and they moved together in squads. Their very activity gave an appearance of terror to the whole appalling scene, to the thousands of fixed eyes.
A sergeant recognized Durant’s car, and the soldiers became even more active. Other cars had to wait while the commanding officer alighted. For the first time the people stirred. A malignant shadow, too gigantic for mere personal hatred, too enormous for mere rage, ran over the people’s faces. It was a dreadful thing to see, if only for a moment, and Durant’s flesh prickled. If they had shouted, if they had moved, if there had been one fierce fist upraised, if one curse had reached him, he would have felt less full of dread and mysterious apprehension.
The Picked Guard surrounded him, and he hurried into the Stadium through a special entrance. Soldiers were everywhere, lined up against the walls of the corridor, holding their rifles ready. They saluted mechanically as Durant passed, but they were watching the doorway. Durant’s executive officers rushed in after him and his Guards; now more cars were arriving, and discharging their passengers. It was like a flight into the comparative safety of the great building.
The Stadium had been built for “sports,” according to the State. But it had not been used very often. There was no time for trivialities these years; all energy, all life, all blood, every hand, every human creature, was engaged in the perpetual “war effort.”
The building was a monster affair, of circular shape, with banks of seats raised on the left and the right, for the “important” people in The Democracy. The center was reserved for the thousands of the common people, and there was a large balcony above where the workers could also be accommodated. At the back loomed the tremendous stage on which speakers stood, and where public celebrations could take place. The building was well lighted and comparatively warm, in spite of the permanent “black-out” to save “fuel” for essential industry and the war effort. The seats allocated to the proletariat were only long benches, uncushioned and narrow, but those kept apart for the preferred and the privileged boasted leather upholstery and high backs and footrests, and the aisles were carpeted.
The flags of The Democracy smothered the bare walls, and rippled on the stage by the aid of strategically placed electric fans.
Durant had seen the Stadium before today, and also the fine large reception rooms where he was to greet the speakers for this occasion: Captain Alice Steffens, of the Department of Women’s Welfare; Karl Schaeffer, of the local office of the FBHS; Walter Morrow, of the Grange; Dr. Joseph Healy, of the Public Psychiatry Department; and Mr. Woolcott, of the Department of Mobilized Labor. The heads of these Departments and Bureaus usually officiated in the huge work of “sustaining morale” among the people, and were confined to making the most of their grave opportunity in ten minutes of staccato talk, for, as Dr. Healy had informed them, the intelligence of the mob, and its attention, precluded long and serious addresses.
Surrounded by his Guards, and followed by his military officers, Durant entered the reception rooms, which were all warm comfort, gold and brown curtans, gold-colored rugs, and fine ivory leather furniture. His speakers were waiting for him: Captain Steffens, pale and smiling and composed in her uniform, Dr. Healy, clothed in his renewed confident arrogance, Walter Morrow, stocky and gray and thoughtful, Karl Schaeffer, full of amiable jokes and ruddy of face, and Mr. Woolcott, drained and silent. They all stood up when Durant entered, and each gave him a brief handshake. Dr. Healy informed him importantly that the two distinguished guests, Mr. Howard Regis, of the FBHS, and his friend, Mr. Dean Burgess, had not as yet arrived.
“We are very anxious to know these wonderful people,” said Dr. Healy, with enthusiasm, “for both have been comparatively newly appointed, that is, within the past six months. This is a great opportunity and privilege for all of us!”
“I hope they arrive before the President speaks,” replied Durant, glancing at the gilt clock over the fireplace. He went to the good fire and rubbed his cold hands and studied each of his speakers minutely. His eyes lingered longest on Mr. Woolcott, his old friend, Ben Colburn. Ben appeared ill and too strained and very tired.
“I heard planes about ten minutes ago,” said Schaeffer, smiling pleasantly. “They must be at the airport now, and ought to be here in less than half an hour. In the meantime, there is some entertainment going on in the Stadium, so the people won’t be bored.”
Durant listened absently. He could hear the faint and distant sound of music, raucous, bouncing, discordant music with a hysterical pitch. God knows, he thought, the old “popular” music of his boyhood had been bad enough, and cheap enough, and depraved enough, colored as it had been by perpetual adolescence and the raw rhythms of the African jungle. But the modern popular music was much worse. It had no form, no substance, and the old themes of juvenile “love” had been abolished in favor of themes concerning the nobility of unremitting work, patriotism and war. He reflected, again, on the differences among nations even when they had adopted absolutism in place of free and democratic government. Hitler had been vehemently partial to the heroic music of Wagner and other immortal German composers; Stalin had been favorably inclined to Russian symphonies. But absolutism in America had been reduced to imbecility, insofar as music was concerned. The ancient and noble composers, and their names, were practically unknown to this generation, and only the elite were permitted the consolations and pleasure of majestic music. Durant did not believe this was an accident. A nation can be debased very easily by “musical” mountebanks, subsidized by the State, and paid by the State. Proletarianism brought to its very lowest denominator, he reflected, in America.
The band shrieked to its final crescendo. Then there was utter silence. They all listened to it. They waited for the usual uproar of applause, and for the immense resumption of crowd noises and crowd laughter, in the Stadium. There was no laughter, there was no noise, and no applause.
Durant frowned. He turned to his speakers, and
he saw grimness on every face, with the exception of Dr. Healy’s. Dr. Healy merely looked bewildered.
“The Stadium’s full,” he remarked. “Crowded to the doors. Yet, there’s no sound. I wonder what’s wrong?”
“What!” exclaimed Durant, looking at him with his sparkling black eyes. “No ‘group integration,’ Doctor, no ‘group dynamics,’ today? Now, what could be the matter?”
The others smiled. Dr. Healy regarded Durant with dignity. “I beg the colonel’s pardon, but our bureau has worked very hard for many years for group integration and group dynamics. After all, modern human society can’t exist without them.” He listened anxiously for any noise from the auditorium. None came. “Strange,” murmured the Doctor. He turned to his fellow speakers. “Did you notice how silent the mob was outside? And what are they doing there? They have their own meeting-places set aside by the State for the celebrations.”
“Perhaps,” said Durant, with a slight smile, “they really have absorbed the teachings and guidance of your bureau, Doctor. Perhaps they really are ‘group integrated’ and just bursting with ‘group dynamics.’ Only, these are taking another form today. People are so unpredictable, aren’t they?”
“Not to a psychiatrist!” cried Dr. Healy, stung by Durant’s tone. “Their response to stimuli always takes a formalized pattern. We know, for instance, that masses are invariably conformists—”
“To what are they conforming now?” asked Durant, interested.