Shadowland. Spider World 06 by Colin Wilson

It was amazing. He quickly realized that, now that he had discovered the trick, he could change his point of view at will, seeing the Magician either as a cold-hearted manipulator or as the compassionate father of his people. Niall had never before recognized so clearly that our perceptions are governed by our assumptions.

His view of the people around him changed too. In his receptive state, he saw the women as deliciously attractive and the men as brave and honest. When he changed his viewpoint, the women became silly and vain, and the men posturing idiots.

He quickly realized that he preferred his detached viewpoint; it seemed pleasanter and healthier, like a vigorous breeze on his cheeks. That warm, intimate glow of feeling that came when he switched viewpoints began to seem increasingly counterfeit, spurious, and somehow sugary.

At that point he was struck by a disquieting thought. Sooner or later he was going to have to talk to the Magician, and had no doubt that he had remarkable telepathic abilities; he would be able to read Niall’s feelings at a glance. When he first came to the spider city, Niall had quickly learned to hide his thoughts from the spiders — but that was different. The spiders were accustomed to human beings with blank minds, and made no attempt to probe what lay behind the facade. The Magician would not be so easily deceived. It therefore would be more sensible of Niall to share the enthusiasm of the others.

Accordingly he attuned himself to the telepathic current around him, and plunged into a sea of comradely unity that was like jumping into a heated swimming pool.

There was plenty of time to reflect on these strange insights. As the ceremony proceeded, the well-dressed upper classes of Shadowland were succeeded by factory overseers who had achieved new levels of productivity. Several workers who had produced more than their quota received promotion, and one who had actually doubled it was even allocated a house on the first level. His delight was so immense that the whole audience felt warmed by it and burst into cheers, while even the Magician smiled benevolently. A few minutes later, a female worker who had served as the manager of a women’s shoe factory for twenty years was also promoted to the first level. It evidently came as a surprise, and the screen showed her radiant smile. All this, Niall could see, was designed to make the workers feel that in this benevolent, democratic society, any of them could move into the upper ranks of society.

After the workers came the miners from the third level. Their ill-fitting clothes reminded Niall of slaves in the spider city. They looked undernourished, and most of their faces were as pale as corpses. Some of them were so overawed to be in the presence of the Magician that they trembled as they knelt to kiss his hand, and one of them tripped, and had to be helped to his feet by a moog. This man was so upset that tears ran down his cheeks, and he could hardly walk as he hurried off the stage. The whole audience vibrated with sympathy, for it was obvious that the man’s only fault was to regard the Magician with the awe he deserved.

As he watched all this, Niall found himself reverting to his critical frame of mind, and wondering why the Magician allowed himself to be treated with this absurd reverence. Niall himself had experienced it when he first became master of the spider city, and had found it an embarrassing nuisance. Now most of his subjects recognized that he genuinely disliked public displays of devotion, and some had even learned to pass him without signs of recognition. Niall looked forward to the day when everyone did the same.

But then again, perhaps the Magician was not really egocentric. Perhaps all this was necessary to prevent the inhabitants of Shadowland from becoming discontented with their boring lot, confined perpetually underground. This was obviously the reason for the militarism: it encouraged discipline. Even King Kazak had encountered this problem of boredom in Dira, in spite of the constant threat of being overrun by the spiders.

At last the awards were over, and Niall could see that the audience was beginning to lose concentration. Yet he could also sense that something further was expected; even though it was two in the morning, the night was not yet over.

All heads turned as another group of people came out of the other room and formed a line. They looked nervous and worried, and Niall guessed that they were due to receive some kind of reprimand. This seemed odd at the end of the award ceremony, but on second thought, Niall could see that it was logical. The virtuous had been praised and received their rewards; now it was the turn of the sinners.

These miscreants, nine in all, were not divided into social groups, like their predecessors in the award ceremony. This, Niall guessed, was part of their punishment: to be herded together like prisoners who had no status.

Everyone stared at them with morbid curiosity. The first of these was a worker in gray cheap clothes like those of the slaves. Niall recognized him; the tall man with the gray mustache he had seen walking alone as he left the second level. Behind him was a gray-haired woman, also of the worker class. But the man and the woman behind them were obviously upper class, since the man had a military bearing, while the woman had a large and shapely bosom and striking blond hair tied with a black ribbon. At the back of the line, behind half a dozen factory workers and miners, was an overweight, big-chinned man in a worker’s uniform.

The tall worker was the first, and the screen showed that he was perspiring with fear. Typhon read out the charge in a flat, level voice: that this man, called Pobrek, constantly absented himself from his hostel, and preferred to avoid communal activities like games. This nonparticipation gave his fellow workers the impression that he disdained their activities.

Pobrek fell on his knees and begged forgiveness, explaining that he had recently been ill and depressed, and could find no woman who was willing to offer him companionship. He ended by bursting into tears and prostrating himself at the feet of the Magician, who had removed his sound-excluders and was listening with his eyes hooded.

Typhon looked at his master to see if he had any comment to make, and when the Magician gave no sign, turned to the accused and explained gravely that in a happy community like theirs, nonparticipation was perceived as a criticism, which introduced a note of discord. Since this was a first offense, Pobrek would be fined three months’ wages, but if the offense was repeated, he would go to prison.

The prisoner, who had been dragged upright by two moogs, immediately prostrated himself again at the Magician’s feet and kissed them, then crawled offstage on all fours. And the audience, who had been following this drama with breathless attention, looked as relieved as if they had also escaped punishment.

Next came the blond woman and the man with the military bearing, who had the physique of a wrestler. Their offense had been to spend twenty-six nights together, in contravention of the regulation against cohabitation, and to devise a plan to take a three-day holiday together in a remote part of the Yevakian Plain. (Niall had no idea where this was.) Had they any defense to offer? Both shook their heads silently.

After glancing at the Magician, and again receiving no signal, Typhon went on to say that he had no alternative than to order the statutory punishment: six months in the mines.

The woman gave a cry of despair, while the man looked crushed. He knelt at the feet of the Magician, kissed his foot, and begged for leniency. This time the Magician’s face was seen to nod slightly. The woman burst into tears of relief. Typhon stated that the couple had chosen corporal punishment, and this would be duly carried out: three strokes for the man, two for the woman.

Once more the man turned his face to the Magician, and in the total silence that followed, asked in a husky voice whether he could not be allowed to take the punishment for both of them.

Once more Typhon looked at the Magician, whose face had become stern. In the silence, he spoke in his thin, clear voice: “In that case, the woman would escape punishment. But I will make one concession. You will both receive three lashes each. Silence!” This last was an admonition as a sigh went up from the audience.

Both prisoners looked shocked; the man went so pale that he seemed on the point of collapse.

A moog came forward and lowered himself onto his knees, with his back toward the man, then raised his arms level with his shoulders. Niall was puzzled; since he was still in his detached state, he had no idea of what was coming. But the man himself obviously knew, and stretched out both arms under those of the moog. The moog then lowered his arms, trapping the man’s arms on either side of his barrel-like chest. The man gasped with agony, and seemed to faint. The moog then stood up, raising the man’s body off the ground, so he hung down the heavily muscled back, his feet dangling like those of a rag doll.