CHAPTER XVII

The High Initiation

Promptly at noon the following day I presented myself before the Committee on Selective Assignments. The offices, which I found without difficulty, were located on the lower floor of an imposing blue-tinted granite edifice; and the Committee itself occupied a hall reminding me vaguely of a court-room, except that its ornamental columns and busts and statues were unparalleled in any court-room I had ever seen. Before a long marble railing sat about fifteen men and women, some old but several conspicuously young. All were perched on cushioned marble seats before little marble pedestals or writing stands, and to their rear were cases lined with rows of parchment-bound volumes that lent the place a scholarly dignity. In front of them, across the railing, were half a dozen tiers of blue stone benches; and on each of the benches stood a huge pile of books, as though the spectators were expected to make use of their time during any delay in the proceedings.

But I was not admitted at once into this great hall. First I was escorted into a small anteroom, where three Atlanteans--two youths of about twenty, and a girl of the same age--were seated studiously reading. From a little parchment document which each carried, I felt sure that they were here on a mission similar to my own; but so preoccupied did they seem, that I had no opportunity to question them. For a moment I merely stared at them impatiently; then, turning to inspect the room, I was delighted to observe a pile of little books on a reed stand in one corner.

* * * * *

After a single curious glance, I began examining these volumes with hungry interest. Their very titles proved alluring, far more alluring than anything printed I had yet seen in Atlantis, with the exception of the lost Homeric masterpiece. Some were works of information dealing with subjects so varied as “Post-Submergence Mural Art,” “The Rise of Government by Selection,” “The Stimulation of Plant Life by Artificial Sunlight,” “History of the Abolition of Crime,” or “History of the Decline of the Upper World”; others were essays on such rare topics as “The Cultivation of Genius,” “Is Altruism One of the Human Instincts?” and “How Atlantis Found the World by Losing It”; still others were works of literature, and, though I had no time to observe them carefully, I saw that they included an epic poem on “Agripides,” a volume of lyrics by some unknown writer of two thousand years ago as well as selections from a dozen lyricists of the present, a poetic drama evidently designed for performance at the annual celebration of the Submergence, several novels and a collection of stories, and a romance of the far future entitled “Super-Art.”

But what particularly engaged my attention was a genial little satire known as “The Prisoner.” This story, which was written in a crisp and simple style that I found delightful, recounted how an Atlantean of a thousand years before had been sentenced, as the penalty for his sins, to pass his remaining years in the upper world. Having been sent above seas in a little water-tight craft propelled by intra-atomic engines, he had set about to seek his fortune in his new surroundings; and, finding that the way to win distinction was to accumulate much gold, he applied his superior Atlantean wits so well that in a short while he became fabulously wealthy. But, after attaining what was reputed to be success, he discovered that his wealth meant nothing to him; he was hungry for the art and the beauty of Atlantis, without which the world seemed barbarous and empty. Even though he could have purchased any treasure or luxury on earth, he took to morbid repining; he brooded and brooded until he went completely out of his wits, which were finally restored to him when the Atlanteans took pity and decided to let him return. And so the poor man went back to his native land, having first forfeited his riches; and this was the last case of insanity even known among the Atlanteans.

I had just completed this little story when I was roused to reality by hearing a strange voice sonorously pronouncing my name. Looking up, I saw a lavender-gowned man motioning me toward the main Committee Room; and I observed with surprise that the youths and the girl had disappeared while I was absorbed in my book.

I found the central hall empty except for the fifteen men and women sedately seated behind the railing; but at sight of these grave individuals I felt my misgivings returning, and wished that I could have been anywhere else in the universe.

“This is Anson Harkness, is it not?” rang forth the high-pitched and yet not unpleasant voice of an aged man whose proximity to the railing indicated that he was the head of the Committee. And after I had assured him that I was the person designated, the Head Member continued, earnestly and yet not so menacingly as I had expected, “Be seated, Anson Harkness. It is an important matter that brings you here. And I believe that, in your case, more than the usual amount of time and thought will be necessary before we can reach a decision.”

The Head Member paused, cleared his throat, and slowly proceeded, “I trust that you will co-operate with us to the best of your ability, for only so can we expect satisfactory results. Just as the average man is betrothed but once in his life, so he appears but once before this Committee; and since, as in the case of a betrothal, much may depend upon the proper choice--”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” I interrupted, unable to endure these long-winded sentences that only added to my confusion, “Would you mind telling me why I am here? As yet I haven’t the faintest idea.”

The Head Member peered at me in mild surprise; his fourteen associates darted inquiring looks at one another.

“Why, yes, that is a proper question,” he resumed, blandly. “I had forgotten: you are a foreigner, and are unacquainted with our ways. You will understand, of course that foreigners were so totally unknown before your coming that the necessity for explanation had not occurred to me. However, the whole matter can be made clear in a few words. You are summoned for what is known as the High Initiation--in other words, this should be the happiest day of your life, since you are now regarded as having reached maturity and so may set forth upon your career of service to the State.”

* * * * *

Having been a voter in the United States for the past eleven years, I was not flattered to be told that I had reached maturity. None the less, I held my tongue, and listened patiently as the Head Member continued.

“The government tutor who has been instructing you,” he pursued, “has reported that you have at least an elementary knowledge of our language and customs, and suggests that you be assigned at once to service.

## Acting upon his recommendation, we intend to promote you to duties

that accord as nearly as possible with your desires and capabilities. But first we must say a word as to the methods in vogue in our land. Ever since the great social revolution which occurred in the second century after the submergence and which for a time threatened to engulf us in chaos, we have employed what is known as the Beehive System of labor--which means that every citizen is required to perform a certain minimum amount of work for the State in order to accomplish those tasks indispensable for our continued existence. Fortunately, the utilization of intra-atomic energy and the elimination of waste and of duplication of effort have reduced the essential work to one-tenth of that thought necessary before the Submergence; and the average citizen now labors not more than an hour and a half or two hours a day. There have, indeed, been occasional men and women so enamored of their employment as to insist on working four or five hours, but such excessive application is not encouraged, for it is believed to overcast the mind and blunt the esthetic sensibilities.”

“Then for heaven’s sake,” I burst forth, thinking this country to be wholly without “push” and energy, “What do people here do with their time? If they don’t work, they must be simply bored to death!”

The Head Member regarded me with a tolerant smile, as one might regard a lunatic who makes some harmless remark.

“That is where you misunderstand the meaning of the word work,” he explained, with something of the manner of a schoolmaster to a backward pupil. “Our people do work, and work diligently indeed, and sometimes work many hours a day--but not on those barren practical duties to which they are assigned, and which are necessary merely in order that the community may exist. As soon as any man or woman has passed the period of elementary instruction and is assigned to service by this Committee, he finds himself in possession of many leisure hours a day--and those hours of leisure constitute the important part of his life, and it is on their account that he is to be congratulated on reaching maturity. For now he may have the opportunity both for self-expression and for the better sort of service to the State; he may devote himself to study, research or creation in any field that suits his fancy (there is absolutely no restriction in this regard, although every one is expected to apply himself to some definite pursuit). One, for example, may elect to paint landscapes; a second to conduct some elaborate philosophic inquiry; a third to write poetry; a fourth to investigate the ways of marine animals; a fifth to be an actor, or a musical virtuoso, or the author of historical essays, or a critic of architecture, or a designer of fine tapestries.”

“But what if one finds nothing at all that he can do?” I inquired, wondering how on earth I could fit myself into this superior scheme of things.

“Oh, but one must find something!” declared the Head Member, while his colleagues eyed one another with looks implying that I was really too naïve for belief. “It would be a disgrace to do nothing at all except one’s practical duties. It would mean that one had been a failure in life; that one’s existence had added nothing to the world. Why, there isn’t more than one such a case a year--and then it’s usually found that the poor sufferer has been the victim of some accident, which blunted his mental faculties.”

The Head Member paused; and while I had horrific visions of myself as the first failure in a year, one of the members just to the rear of the Head Member leaned over and whispered something into his ear. Just what he said I could not catch, but the evident effect was to hasten proceedings, for the chief official promptly turned to me, and, with unwonted directness, continued, “Well, now that we have made all the necessary explanations, let us get down to the actual assignment. Just what sort of work do you think you would prefer, young man?”

Having no reason to believe that I would prefer any work at all, I did nothing but gape blankly at the speaker.

“I am surprised at your hesitancy,” that sedate individual at length continued, blandly. “There is so much for you to do that I should think you would simply overwhelm us with suggestions.”

* * * * *

But I fear that I continued to do nothing but look blank. “You will pardon me,” I pleaded, when the suspense had become embarrassing, “if I leave the suggestions to you. I really know so little about Atlantis that I couldn’t possibly choose wisely.”

“True, you do know little about Atlantis,” coincided the Head Member, with a smile. “But there is something about which you undoubtedly know a great deal, and about which we Atlanteans know nothing at all.”

“You mean--my own country?” I demanded, while all the members of the Committee leaned forward with interested glances.

“Of course--your own country, and the upper world in general,” the Head Member nodded, approvingly. “You must remember, our latest news of your world was received some three thousand years ago. Even for a leisurely people like us, that is a long while. You cannot imagine how curious we are as to all that has happened since.”

“And that’s what you want me to tell you?”

“Naturally. We know, to be sure, that no one man could begin to tell us everything, but at least we’d like to learn the general outline of events. And so we are thinking of appointing you Official Historian of the Upper World.”

“Official Historian of the Upper World!” I repeated, like one in a daze.

“Yes. Why not? Judging from the fact that you’ve made quicker progress in our language than any of your companions, we think you would perhaps be better qualified for the office.”

“But I haven’t specialized in history--” I started to plead.

“We’re more interested in general movements than in particular incidents,” explained the Head Member. “The sort of knowledge that any educated man might give us, is what we want.

“You certainly are not unacquainted with the present civilization up above, are you?”

“No, not altogether,” I was forced to acknowledge.

“And you’ve been taught a reasonable amount about the past, have you not?”

“I’ve taken a number of history courses at college, if that’s what you mean.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” And the Head Member beamed upon me ingratiatingly. “Then the rest should be a mere matter of study and application. You don’t object to the appointment, do you?”

I confessed that I did not object.

Whereupon, turning to his associates, he inquired, “Do you all approve of the appointment of Anson Harkness as Official Historian of the Upper World?”

Since there was no dissent among the Committee members, my life-work was apparently settled.

“But just what do you expect me to do?” I queried, somewhat doubtfully, after my appointment had been confirmed.

“You are to write a history of the upper world, of course,” explained the Head Member, surprised that I should ask the obvious. “How you are to proceed will be for you to decide; but you must remember that this will be your assigned work, to which you are expected to devote not less than two hours a day. I might point out, moreover, that yours is one of those rare cases where the assigned work is so important that you might do well to combine it with your optional work, and so dedicate your time exclusively to your duties as historian.”

“Perhaps that would be the best way,” I agreed, for it struck me that the task before me would require all my energies.

But at that juncture an important question occurred to me. I did not wish to seem too commercial; but it was evident that the examiners had overlooked something essential. “Now as to the practical returns,” I ventured, mildly. “I know, of course, that I cannot expect to be paid very much--”

“To be paid?” repeated four or five of the Committee members all at once, with looks of such sheer amazement that I knew that I had blundered.

“Oh, then perhaps I must show you some results first?” I suggested, perceiving no other alternative.

For two or three seconds there was silence--an ominous, puzzling silence which made me realize that I had given deep offense.

“Young man,” the Head Member at length broke forth, severely, “I fear that you are under a grave misapprehension. But possibly you are not wholly to blame, for it may be that your own country still labors under those primitive social arrangements which we Atlanteans abolished three thousand years ago. Know, then, that there is no such thing as payment in our land. There is no money; there is no medium of exchange. You do your work, and in return receive all the necessaries of life; your meals are brought to you by State employees, just as they have been brought to you thus far; you are also lodged by the State, clothed by the State, educated by the State; the State works of art are at your disposal, you are admitted freely to all State entertainments, and are even granted periodic vacations to break the monotony of existence. What more could any man desire?”

“No more, of course,” I conceded, feeling utterly crushed.

“Very well, then,” said the official, with an indulgent smile that made me feel ridiculous. “Now there is only one more matter to be decided. How would you like to set out on your travels the day after tomorrow?”

“What travels?” I gasped, wondering what on earth he could mean.

“Why, evidently you haven’t heard about that, either!” remarked the Head Member, noting my surprise. “You see, every Atlantean, upon receiving his assignment and before taking up his duties, is expected to make a tour of the country, so as to acquaint himself with it at first hand. Otherwise, how could he expect to voice himself intelligently on national affairs?”

Having nothing to say in reply, I merely gaped and remained silent.

“Ordinarily, this journey requires about a month,” my informer proceeded. “The trip is made entirely on foot, so that one may observe the country thoroughly. There is a party leaving in two days--perhaps you would like to join them.”

“Very well,” I assented. And, after being advised regarding a few details of the trip and then notified of my dismissal, I went away feeling more puzzled than ever, for I could not believe that Atlantis could show me anything more marvelous than it had already shown.

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