CHAPTER XXIII

Xanocles

As an accredited citizen of Atlantis, I was assigned to permanent lodgings immediately after returning to Archeon. The housing representative of the Atlantean government (the only substitute in the Sunken World for our “realtors”) accompanied me on a leisurely tour of the city, allowing me my choice of not less than fifteen or twenty apartments. The task of selection was by no means easy, not because it was hard to secure suitable quarters but because it was difficult to choose among so many desirable places. Never before had I realized how utterly superior the Atlantean homes were to our own--out of all the houses I visited, there was not one that was not separated by wide spaces from its neighbors, or that did not enjoy a full share of air and light, or that did not look comfortable and alluring. The grim and musty interiors of many of our own dwellings, the furniture-littered rooms, the glaring bad taste of gilt and tinsel chairs and adornments, found no parallel among the Atlantean residences I visited. Instead, each apartment was so artlessly inviting that I might have claimed it at once as my home.

The distinguishing feature of most of the Atlantean houses was a central court that reminded me of the dwellings of the ancient world. Usually the court was square or rectangular in shape, though in some instances it was hexagonal or round; and more often than not it was completely enclosed. Some of the courts were surrounded by stalwart columns, but the majority were plain. Some had walls of granite, some of marble, some of a peculiar bluish stone that I could not recognize; some were marked by spangled fountains, some by flower-gardens, some by swimming pools; and the most distinctive of all was arranged as an art gallery, with a dominating statue in the center and paintings hung at intervals along the sides. But whatever the particular contents of the court, it was certain to be accessible by four or five doors leading into the several apartments.

After inspecting the various prospective lodgings, I finally decided in favor of a little three-room suite (three rooms, that is, in addition to the sleeping chamber on the roof) which looked out over a tree-lined expanse toward the sapphire dome of the Hall of Public Enlightenment. I was urged to take these quarters largely because of the fascination of the frieze-lined adjourning court, whose finely modelled images of gods and nymphs and satyrs offered me a prospect of fruitful study. But I was also captivated by the rooms themselves, which gave a bizarre effect with their walls decked with seaweed tapestries, and which seemed at once like a home and a temple with their high vaulted ceilings, their arching doorways and great elliptical windows, and their removable partitions capable of transforming the entire apartment into a single good-sized hall.

* * * * *

It was fortunate perhaps that I chose these particular lodgings, for otherwise I might never have known Xanocles. Xanocles was to be my one intimate among all the men of Atlantis. It so happened that he--that fiery spirit, audacious thinker, and trustworthy friend--had chosen his abode in the same building; and it also happened (since fate works in inscrutable ways even in Atlantis) that he and I were early thrown together. It was, indeed, on the very day after my return to Archeon that Xanocles and I met. I had just settled in my new home, and had gone out into the court for my first close inspection of its mural decorations, when a door across from me slid open and a tall, white-clad figure emerged. A single glance would have told me that the stranger was exceptional, and a single glance perhaps told him that I was exceptional in Atlantis: for he paused in startled surprise, and for an embarrassed instant we stood staring inquiringly at one another. In that first fleeting glimpse I had an impression of a powerful personality; a large head poised squarely over a pair of broad and capable shoulders; two vivid blue eyes deeply set beneath a massive brow; a beardless oval face dominated by flowing chestnut locks; classic features, with chin and nose consummately modelled. But I did not notice then what I was often to observe later: the ironic glitter in the alert eyes, the forceful and determined lines into which the face would habitually settle, the air of overflowing vigor tempered by an easy self-command. Judging from the smooth contours of the man’s face, I took him to be not over thirty years of age; and I was later much surprised to learn that he was well past forty (since in Atlantis people do not age so rapidly as on earth).

“By Agripides! You must be one of those visitors from up above!” exclaimed the newcomer, recovering from his astonishment. And he approached me with a winning smile, and held out both hands by way of greeting. “My name is Xanocles. We seem to be neighbors, you and I. Perhaps we can get to know each other.”

“I hope we shall,” I seconded, as I took his hands. “My name is Harkness. I’ve just finished my tour around Atlantis, and now I’m supposed to begin duty as a citizen.”

“That’s quick work,” nodded Xanocles, approvingly. And then, after an instant’s pause, “So you’re the one they’ve appointed Historian of the Upper World?”

I pleaded guilty to the accusation.

“I knew it must be so,” explained my new acquaintance, “because only one of the immigrants has been admitted to citizenship. Of course, there will be others later on.”

“Won’t you come in?” I invited, with a gesture toward my new apartments.

Xanocles needed no second invitation. A minute later we were seated opposite one another on seaweed cushions in the little room that was to be my study.

“It seems to me, Harkness,” he suggested, using my name as familiarly as though he had known me all my life, “we might as well be frank with one another from the beginning. At least, I might as well be frank with you. And I’d better start by warning you that you’ll not gain much from acquaintance with me. I’m none too popular.”

“No?” I demanded, wondering vaguely what offense he had committed.

“No,” he confessed. “I’m so very unpopular, in fact, that it may reflect upon you even to be seen in my company.”

“But what is it that you’ve done?” I asked, thinking it strange that this attractive and able-looking man should be so disliked. “Surely, you haven’t blown up a building, or stolen some one’s jewels, or killed a man--”

A frown of disgust passed across Xanocles’ face. “Such primitive forms of violence,” he reminded me, “are unknown in Atlantis. No, I haven’t stooped to anything so low. But I’ve done something bad enough in the eyes of the people.”

“I’ll have to give it up,” said I, growing more puzzled each moment.

“It shouldn’t be hard to guess--not if you know the ways of Atlantis,” he continued, gravely. “I’ve joined the Party of Emergence.”

“The Party of Emergence?” I exclaimed, remembering what Aelios had told me of this minority group.

“I not only joined the party,” he acknowledged, completing the indictment, “but I’ve let them elect me one of their Debating Delegates.”

“But I don’t exactly understand--” I admitted, hesitatingly.

“You would understand if you knew more about Atlantis. Every people has to have its pet aversion, I suppose, and our pet aversion down here is the Emergence Party. That’s because it opposes the principles of the one hundred per cent Atlanteans.”

“But just what is the Emergence Party?” I inquired, still in doubt as to the tenets of this detested faction. “Is it anything so terrible?”

“That all depends upon the point of view,” declared Xanocles, enigmatically.

He paused long enough to give me an instant’s scrutiny with keen and quizzical eyes. “I am not sure that you would understand,” he decided, speaking as much to himself as to me. “But the main thing is that we oppose the compulsory limitation of population.”

“Compulsory limitation of population?” I repeated, wondering if I had heard him correctly.

“Most certainly. You’ve heard, perhaps, that our population is limited by law to five hundred thousand.”

“But that’s impossible!” I cried, incredulously.

“Experience has proved quite the contrary,” he dissented.

* * * * *

For a moment I did not reply. I merely sat staring at my companion, trying to fathom the secret hidden in those inscrutable grave eyes of his. And though he gave no sign of not being utterly truthful, I ended by giving expression to my scepticism.

“What do you do with your extra inhabitants? Do they emigrate to the center of the earth? Or do you prefer to shoot them or drown them, or perhaps to asphyxiate them humanely?”

“There are no extra inhabitants,” was the surprising reply. “Do you know nothing of the Milares Compulsory Population Law?”

I was forced to confess my ignorance.

“Then let me enlighten you,” volunteered Xanocles, with a tolerant smile. “First let me take you back a few thousand years, to the days just after the Submergence. At that time the population of Atlantis was several millions, and the swarms of our people were so dense that long hours of labor were necessary, living quarters were crowded and unsanitary, and there was little time for the creation or appreciation of beauty. This state of affairs endured for over a century, when, after much discussion, the Milares Compulsory Population Law was passed, and the citizenry was gradually reduced to its present satisfactory numbers.”

“And what was the Milares Population Law?” I asked.

“It is the law that is still the backbone of our life. According to Milares, a great social philosopher of the second century A. S., the most important of public questions is that of parentage. He maintained that the parents of each generation might either poison or uplift the next; and all of his numerous pamphlets and books bore the warning that persons congenitally deficient in mind or physique should not be permitted to breed, while those of the higher physical and intellectual qualities should be encouraged.

“In pursuance of these views, Milares proposed a basic innovation in social customs; he recommended that the institution of marriage be dissevered from that of parenthood. In other words, while marriage--and likewise divorce--should be permitted to all that desired it, parenthood should become a subject of drastic state regulation: any young couple wishing, children must have their fitness examined by a carefully selected State board. Since effective methods of birth control were known, this system was wholly practicable, and, in fact, has proved--”

“But what if the orders of the Board were disobeyed?” I interrupted. “Certainly, the unlawful newcomer couldn’t be punished.”

“Certainly not. But a stigma would attach to the parents--the stain of illegitimacy.”

“You mean that the parents would be considered illegitimate?”

“Exactly. And the disgrace is so great that few persons have ever offended in that way. As a result, we have never at any time exceeded the prescribed population by more than ten or twelve thousands.”

“Even so,” I contended, rather vaguely, “it seems to me that such a system would be altogether too arbitrary to succeed.”

“Yet it has succeeded splendidly. The experience of nearly three thousand years has vindicated it beyond dispute. Do you think that, at the time of the Submergence our men and women enjoyed such perfection of physical beauty as today? Or do you imagine that the intellectual and artistic types were then predominant? Far from it! Thousands upon thousands were sickly and stunted in body; a myriad were imbecilic, weak-minded or insane. But thanks to the rigidity of the selection, these types have been entirely eliminated; and, owing largely to the same cause, the average human life has been lengthened from the pre-Submergence figure of sixty-five years to a hundred and twenty--which means that the man of ability has a whole century of mature service to render instead of a mere four, or five decades.”

I had no choice except to admit that the results were marvelous. But at the same time I remembered a vital oversight in Xanocles’ recitation. “All this tells me nothing of the Party of Emergence,” I pointed out. “In fact, if the Milares Population Law has worked so successfully, I cannot understand why you should oppose it.”

“It would not be strictly correct to say that we oppose it,” he explained. “We recognize its beneficent results, but we believe that the time has come to modify it. Not that we would increase the population of Atlantis beyond the half million mark, for that would be to impose an intolerable burden upon us all; but we hold that many deserving persons are being deprived of parenthood, and that many more children of the highest quality might be born. To furnish a simple illustration, the Board seems to believe it unwise to perpetuate the radical strains, and so rules with suspicious frequency against members of the Party of Emergence.”

“Then precisely what is it that your party advocates?” I questioned.

“Just what our name implies: to let our surplus population emerge into the upper world. That would be easily possible, for the submersible repair ships that range the ocean about the glass wall would be capable of conveying us above seas. Of course, there might be no possibility of a return, but a return would not be desirable: it would be enough to insure life for thousands of our unborn sons and daughters, and to remake the upper world by an infiltration of our superior blood and standards. Besides,”--here Xanocles hesitated perceptibly--“there is another reason.”

“What is that?” I felt bound to inquire.

Xanocles remained silent for a moment, staring abstractedly toward the romping fauns and mermaids on the seaweed tapestries of the opposite wall. Then slowly he resumed, “We hold--and in this we are violently combated by our friends of the Submergence Party--that there was one minor flaw in the plans of Agripides. In a thousand respects his projects were perfect; but we believe that in the thousandth and first he made an oversight--perhaps an unavoidable oversight. He did not leave room enough in Atlantis for adventure. Everything here is so well designed that there is little chance for daring courage, the unknown--little chance for sheer primitive rashness and hardihood. Our games and recreations, our art, our political contests, of course consume much of our surplus energy; but, after all, we are the children of savage ancestors, and among our young there is a craving for keener experience. And so we of the Emergence Party favor the increase of population, so that those who wish may enjoy the greatest adventure of all--may launch their vessels toward unknown worlds!”

“You would find that adventure well worth taking,” I commented.

“Then you--you perhaps agree with the Party of Emergence?” cried Xanocles, rising and coming toward me enthusiastically.

“Perhaps I do,” I admitted, also rising, and taking his extended hands. And as I felt his hearty clasp, it seemed to me that I had not only gained a friend but found my political allegiance.

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