Oh, yes! I dislike the prospect quite as much as you do, but I dislike still more the idea of being atomized, or of being served up as a roast by my starving neighbors. Here is what you can expect:
The front door bell rings. Mr. Joseph Public, solid citizen, goes to answer it. He recognizes a neighbor. “Hi, Jack! What takes you out so late?”
“Got some dope for you, Joe. Relocation orders—I was appointed an emergency deputy, you know.”
“Hadn’t heard, but glad to hear. Come in and sit down and tell me about it. How do the orders read? We stay, don’t we?”
“Can’t come in—thanks. I’ve got twenty-three more stops to make tonight. I’m sorry to say you don’t stay. Your caravan will rendezvous at Ninth and Chelsea, facing west, and gets underway at noon tomorrow.”
“What!”
“That’s how it is. Sorry.”
“Why, this is a damned outrage! I put in to stay here—with my home town as second choice.”
The deputy shrugged. “So did everybody else. But you weren’t even on the list of essential occupations from which the permanent residents were selected. Now, look—I’ve got to hurry. Here are your orders. Limit yourself to 150 pounds of baggage, each, and take food for three days. You are to go in your own car—you’re getting a break—and you will be assigned two more passengers by the convoy captain, two more besides your wife I mean.”
Joe Public shoved his hands in his pockets and looked stubborn. “I won’t be there.”
“Now, Joe, don’t take that attitude. I admit it’s kinda rough, being in the first detachment, but you’ve had lots of notice. The newspapers have been full of it. It’s been six months since the President’s proclamation.”
“I won’t go. There’s some mistake. I saw the councilman last week and he said he thought I would be all right. He—”
“He told everybody that, Joe. This is a Federal order.”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s from the Angel Gabriel. I tell you I won’t go. I’ll get an injunction.”
“You can’t, Joe. This has been declared a military area and protests have to go to the Provost Marshal. I’d hate to tell you what he does with them. Anyhow, you can’t stay here—it’s no business of mine to put you out; I just have to tell you—but the salvage crews will
be here tomorrow morning to pull out your plumbing.
“They won’t get in.”
“Maybe not. But the straggler squads will go through all of these houses first.”
“I’ll shoot!”
“I wouldn’t advise it. They’re mostly ex-Marines.”
Mr. Public was quiet for a long minute. Marines. “Look, Jack,” he said slowly, “suppose I do go. I’ve got to have an exemption on this baggage limitation and I can’t carry passengers. My office files alone will fill up the back seat.”
“You won’t need them. You are assigned as an apprentice carpenter. The barracks you are going to are only temporary.”
“Joseph! Joseph! Don’t stand there with the door open! Who is it?” His wife followed her voice in.
He turned to tell her; the deputy took that as a good time to leave.
At eleven the next morning he pulled out of the driveway, gears clashing. He had the white, drawn look of a man who has been up all night. His wife slept beside him, her hysteria drowned in a triple dose of phenobarbital.
That is dispersion. If you don’t believe it, ask any native-born citizen of Japanese blood. Nothing less than force and police organization will drive the peasants off the slopes of Vesuvius. The bones of Pompeii and Herculaneum testify to that. Or, ask yourself— will you go willingly and cheerfully to any spot and any occupation the government assigns to you? If not, unless you are right now working frantically to make World War III impossible, you have not yet adjusted yourself to the horrid facts of the Atomic Age.
For these are the facts of the Atomic Age. If we are not to have a World State, then we must accept one of two grim alternatives: A permanent state of total war, even in “peace” time, with every effort turned to offense and defense, or relax to our fate, make our peace