This was what had always been known as communist self-criticism.
Peter put out still another proclamation. He ordered a stop to this sort of criticism. For a while it greatly diminished. But still no subordinate criticized his superior, and no one criticized the Politburo, the Party, or the government itself.
“What happened, Adams? Or rather, why didn’t anything happen?”
Adams smiled. “I should have foreseen this, chief. It should have been obvious. All that happened is that nobody trusted your proclamation. They thought it was a trick.”
“A trick?”
“Yes—a trick to smoke them out. A trick to find out who were the enemies of the government, and to liquidate them. Everybody waited for somebody else to stick his neck out, to see what would happen to him. Nobody wanted to be the first. So nobody was.”
“Should we secretly order a few people to start criticizing the government, just to prove to the others that it is safe?”
“You seem to have a will to political suicide, chief. Besides, that would certainly be a trick. Why can’t you leave well enough alone?”
“But why didn’t anything happen?” persisted Peter. “I still can’t understand.”
“The truth is,” said Adams, “that you were protected by the policy of Stalenin and his predecessors. They have quite properly created an atmosphere of terror that is not easily dissolved. Besides, what actually happened—and I should have been bright enough to foresee it—was inherent in the situation.”
“How so?”
“Because you have absolute power, and absolute power includes unlimited power to punish.”
“But I publicly promised, in a self-denying proclamation, not to use that power against honest criticism!”
“That doesn’t matter. You still have the power. And as long as you have the power, people will fear that you are going to use it.”
“But if they find me adhering to my promise?”
“It still won’t matter. You have power over the economic fate of every man in Wonworld. You—or what is the same thing, the economic hierarchy over which you preside—have absolute power to decide what job a man shall have, or whether he shall have any job at all. You can decide whether he shall have a brilliant career, or an obscure one, or a horrible one. You can decide whether or not food ration tickets are issued to him—in other words, whether he can live or die. Now suppose someone publicly criticizes you, and that his criticism is really telling? Pride may prevent you from publicly repealing your own proclamation, or from openly violating it. But are you sure that you won’t be tempted to punish this critic on some other ground—on the ground that he is a negligent workman, or a bad manager, or a saboteur or traitor? And even if you are above such a temptation, are you sure that your critic’s immediate superior, or someone else along the line, won’t punish him on some such ground in the hope of gaining favor either with his superior or directly with you? And even suppose that everybody in the hierarchy is so angelic as to be above this temptation? Do you still think anybody would be foolish enough to take the chance? Suppose your critic really were guilty of negligence or incompetence or treachery, and were punished for it? Isn’t it likely that everyone would leap to the conclusion that he was really being punished for criticizing you, and that the actual charge against him was merely a frame-up? Suppose your critic were not promoted and did not deserve promotion? Wouldn’t he be certain none the less to attribute his lack of promotion to his criticism of you? ... To be perfectly candid—and it helps to enforce my point—I’m not sure I’m not taking a big risk myself even in saying these things privately to you.”
He smiled in a way obviously meant to be winning.
“And what is your conclusion from all this?” asked Peter.
“My conclusion, chief, is that control over a man’s livelihood, over his means of support, over his economic career, means in effect control over all his actions and all his speech. To deprive him of economic liberty is to deprive him of all liberty. Where the State is the sole employer, each man must not only refrain from doing or saying anything that will offend his superiors who constitute the State; he must go further, and exert himself to do or say anything and everything calculated to please his superiors who constitute the State. And that is why there has been all this incredible fawning and abject adulation of Stalenin—if you will pardon the liberty of my saying so.”
Peter got up and paced the room. “Very well. You win. So, to sum up: Under our socialistic system we cannot have freedom of initiative; we cannot have freedom of choice of work or occupation; we cannot allow consumers’ freedom of choice; there cannot be any freedom to criticize the government...”
He stopped suddenly and stared at Adams. “But this is the opposite of everything in our socialist textbooks! I’m frankly bewildered. What did Friedrich Engels mean, anyhow, when he said that ‘Socialism is an ascent from the kingdom of necessity to the kingdom of freedom?’ “
“He was talking only of what conditions would be when the socialist heaven had finally been reached,” Adams answered. “He was obviously not talking of the transitional period from capitalism into socialism. That period, as Marx very distinctly pointed out, would be marked by the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat/ And when Marx said dictatorship’ he meant dictatorship.”
“How long was the transitional period supposed to take?”
“Until the resistance of the capitalists has been completely broken,’ as Lenin said. Until the capitalists have disappeared, until there are no classes.”
“How long was that supposed to take?”
“A few years... maybe even a few decades... I don’t know.”
“But we completely defeated the capitalists and the bourgeoisie more than a century ago!”
“I suppose Marx and Engels would argue, chief, if they were alive today, that the transitional period would go on until the last remnants of capitalist mentality had been stamped or educated out of people’s minds, until each wanted to work for all and not for himself.”
“But we have now had more than a century of daydreaming, pep talks, exhortations, denunciations, forced labor, shootings and torture—and we still don’t seem to have brought about that transformation in human motives!”
“Human nature, chief, seems to be a little more stubborn than Marx and Engels supposed. They argued, of course, that it was not human nature that created human institutions, but rather that it was human institutions that created human nature.”
“Doesn’t that sound, Adams, like putting the cart before the horse?... And even under capitalism, if a man really wanted to work primarily for humanity, instead of primarily for himself and his family, wasn’t he free to do so?”
“But under capitalism, chief, he got the highest rewards by working for himself; therefore his biggest incentive was to work for himself and not for others.”
“That’s begging the question. If a man is not already selfish, he is not stimulated by selfish incentives. If he finds his greatest reward in advancing the welfare and happiness of others, that is what he will do; and selfish incentives will not divert him, because he will not feel them.”
“Then I suppose the answer is, chief, to set up social institutions so as to harness even the self-regarding motives in such a way that when a man pursues his own welfare he will do most to promote the welfare of society.”
“But socialism begins precisely at the other end, Adams! It argues that it is only by pursuing the welfare of society that a man can promote his own welfare. The appeal is still primarily selfish. But the argument, judging by results, appears to be unconvincing.... Let me put it this way: ‘I want to get rich,’ said the individual in the Dark Ages. ‘Go ahead and get rich,’ answered capitalism, ‘and you will find, to your surprise, that you have also incidentally enriched society.’ ‘I want to get rich,’ still says the individual today. ‘Devote yourself to enriching society,’ says socialism, ‘and you will find, to your surprise, that this is also the su
rest way to enrich yourself.’ “
“Isn’t that the nobler appeal, chief?”
“I don’t know. But it seems to me that the real question is which system actually works best.”
“You started by asking me, chief, what Engels meant when he said that socialism was ‘a leap from the kingdom of necessity to the kingdom of freedom.’ “
“Ah, yes... and what did he mean?”
“He meant, I take it,” answered Adams, “that under capitalism the individual was not free but enslaved, because one class was dominated and exploited by another; one man was dominated and exploited by another; the worker had to obey the orders of his employer or starve. And socialism means freedom from all this.”
“I don’t quite see it,” Peter said. “Under any system of production whatever, there has to be social organization. There have to be those who direct the work and those who are directed; those who give orders and those who follow them; those who boss and those who are bossed. There has to be, in other words, a managerial hierarchy. If it is merely a question of building a single house, there has to be someone to decide that the house is to be put up, and what kind and where. There has to be an architect to design it, a builder to interpret the plans and to decide what workers to use and what to tell them to do—”
“But under socialism, chief, unlike capitalism, there is no exploitation of the workers for the profit of the employer.”
“Under socialism,” retorted Peter, “the State is the sole employer. If the worker fails to please the powers that be in the State, or if he arouses their active animosity, there is no one else to whom he can turn. A far greater tyranny may be exercised over him under socialism than I imagine was even possible under capitalism. For if a worker failed to please a particular employer under capitalism, I imagine he was free to go to another. And the fear of losing his exploited workers to some other employer must have mitigated the exploitation practiced by each employer.... But under socialism, if a worker falls out of favor with the powers that constitute the State, he can be forced to starve; there is no one else to whom he can turn.”
“What I think Engels meant, chief, is that under capitalism the workers were exploited by the capitalist class, and crises and depressions seemed to come like visitations apart from anybody’s wishes; while under socialism, society takes its destiny into its own hands and is in that sense free.”
“I see,” said Peter sarcastically. “And in practice, who constitutes ‘society?’ Who is ‘society?’ “
“Society is everyone.”
“Oh, come now! Everyone can’t make the decisions. No two persons’ decisions would ever agree.”
“Well, by society I mean the State.”
“And by the State—?”
Adams grinned. “I mean us.”
“Exactly. The hierarchy momentarily headed by me,” said Peter. He had a sick feeling as he thought once more of his appalling responsibility. “What it comes down to is this, Adams. Society consists, and consists necessarily, of a small body of rulers and a large body of ruled. And this body of rulers itself consists of a hierarchy, finally topped by one man with the power to resolve disputes and make final decisions. So when we say that ‘society’ does this or that, we mean that the State does this or that. And when we say the State, we mean the ruling hierarchy. We mean the Protectors; we mean the Party; we mean the Central Committee; we mean the Politburo; we mean merely the Dictator himself—or,” Peter grinned, “the Dictator’s Deputy.”
“But under socialism,” protested Adams, “the State, reflects not the will of the exploiters against the proletariat, but the will of the proletariat themselves. The State is just the mechanism by which the People express their will. It is a dictatorship of the proletariat—”
“Or a dictatorship over the proletariat? Let’s face the real facts. Under our socialist system a few people—say the Central Planning Board—make the economic plan, and the rest of the people are ordered to carry out the plan. All initiative must come from the center, and none can come from the periphery.”
“It has to be that way, chief. There would be no point in having a master overall plan, deciding just what goods should be produced, and just how much of each, and by just whom, if anybody anywhere were free to decide to make or do something else. That would be chaos.”
“But isn’t there any productive system that would allow more liberty, Adams? Isn’t there any system that would allow more centers of initiative? What actually happened under capitalism? Were workers free to change from one job to another that they liked better? Was the individual capitalist free to decide to make what he pleased, and in the way he pleased? Was the consumer free to consume what he preferred, and to reject what he didn’t like?”
“I don’t know what happened under capitalism, chief. Nobody knows. And we destroyed the capitalist literature so completely that I don’t see how we are going to find out. But surely we are not going to turn back to that discredited and vicious system—which the world got rid of at the cost of so much blood and sacrifice—to take lessons in how to improve socialism!”
“All right,” agreed Peter, “let’s forget about capitalism. But I still don’t understand what Engels meant when he called socialism ‘the kingdom of freedom.’ I still don’t know what Marx meant when he said that under socialism the State would ‘wither away.’ For it seems to me that it is above all under socialism, where the State owns all the means of production, does all the planning and assigns and controls all the jobs, that the State is and must be closest to omnipotence....”
He gazed unseeingly out of the window.
“Adams, you have convinced me. It is precisely under a socialist State that the least liberty can exist. Under complete socialism, in fact, liberty for the individual is simply impossible. And if I had really succeeded in encouraging it, which fortunately I did not, I would simply have brought on chaos.”
Adams looked satisfied. He took a pinch of snuff.
“I’ve thought of one additional reason, chief, why you did not succeed in your campaign to encourage criticism. The State owns all the printing shops, all the book publishers and all the newspapers. You can appoint or remove the heads of any of these, not to speak of the subordinates. You can even order them shot. Naturally none of these dear comrades was eager to die or suffer for the mistake of printing somebody else’s criticism. They would probably not have printed any criticism except on your direct orders.”
“All right, all right! Don’t rub it in, Adams. My education proceeds slowly, but I am making progress.”
Chapter 20
PETER and Adams were in Stalenin’s office, holding their regular four o’clock conference.
The intercom buzzed. It was Sergei’s voice: “Bolshekov’s secretary is on the telephone, Your Highness. He says that No. 2 would like No. 13 to come to his office.”
Peter made a grimace at Adams. This was what he had feared and expected. This was now his biggest hurdle.
“You can’t blame him,” said Adams. “After all, he does outrank you, and it’s protocol for the lower number to come to see the higher—when and if invited.”
“Why can’t I simply refuse to see him?”
“You’d better see him and get it over with. If he thinks you’re afraid of him—”
“Tell Bolshekov’s secretary,” said Peter to Sergei through the intercom, “that No. 1’s Deputy will be pleased to see No. 2 here at No. 1’s office at quarter to four sharp tomorrow afternoon.”
Adams’ raised eyebrows expressed a mixture of admiration and misgiving.
It was fifteen minutes before the intercom buzzed again.
“There was considerable difficulty, Your Highness,” Sergei announced. “No. 2 wishes me to say that he regards this whole procedure as a complete violation of protocol, but that the matter is so urgent that he will waive his prerogatives and be at this office at approximately the time you suggest.”
“He said ‘approximately?’”
&n
bsp; “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Thank you, Sergei.” He flicked off the intercom, smiling grimly, and turned to Adams. “I shall consider it a favor if you will also be here at ‘approximately’ the same time. Have you any advice as to how to handle him?”
Adams offered some advice.
The next day Adams arrived at Stalenin’s office at exactly quarter to four.
“I knew Bolshekov would purposely be a little late,” said Peter.
Bolshekov arrived a little after four. “I think it’s about time I knew the meaning of all this,” he began immediately. “Why can’t I get to see No. 1?”
“You heard the radio announcement. You read the newspapers,” replied Peter. “You know that No. 1 wishes to be in seclusion to concentrate on major problems of policy, and that he has appointed me his Deputy and liaison man to act for him.”
“That may be a good enough line for the proletariat,” said Bolshekov, “but it isn’t good enough for me. What’s wrong with Stalenin? Has he had another stroke? Is he incapacitated?”
Did Bolshekov really know, or had he just made a lucky guess? Peter tried to remain poker-faced. “You seem to know so much. Why do you ask me?”
“He’s had a paralyzing stroke,” Bolshekov said. “Either he should resign, or the Politburo should announce that he is incapacitated and that I, as next in line, have succeeded him.”
“That would be very convenient for you.” “I intend to bring the matter up at the next meeting of the Politburo!” “At your own risk,” Peter warned. “No. 2 is not a bad position: you should be very content with it.” “I beg to remind you that No. 2 doesn’t tolerate anything like that from No. 13—especially—”