Nevertheless he gradually built up a picture of a people being systematically and thoroughly enslaved, a picture of a nation as helpless as a man completely paralyzed, its defenses destroyed, its communications entirely in the hands of the invaders.
Everywhere he found boiling resentment, a fierce willingness to fight against the tyranny, but it was undirected, uncoordinated, and, in any modern sense, unarmed. Sporadic rebellion was as futile as the scurrying of ants whose hill has been violated. PanAsians could be killed, yes, and there were men willing to shoot on sight, even in the face of the certainty of their own deaths. But their hands were bound by the greater certainty of brutal multiple retaliation against their own kind. As with the Jews in Germany before the final blackout in Europe, bravery was not enough, for one act of violence against the tyrants would be paid for by other men, women, and children at unspeakable compound interest.
Even more distressing than the miseries he saw and heard about were the reports of the planned elimination of the American culture as such. The schools were closed. No word might be printed in English. There was a suggestion of a time, one generation away, when English would be an illiterate language, used orally alone by helpless peons who would never be able to revolt for sheer lack of a means of communication on any wide scale.
It was impossible to form any rational estimate of the numbers of Asiatics now in the United States.
Transports, it was rumored, arrived daily on the West coast, bringing thousands of administrative civil servants, most of whom were veterans of the amalgamation of India. Whether or not they could be considered as augmenting the armed forces who had conquered and now policed the country it was difficult to say, but it was evident that they would replace the white minor officials who now assisted in civil administration at pistol point. When those white officials were “eliminated” it would be still more difficult to organize resistance.
Thomas found the means to enter the cities in one of the hobo jungles.
Finny — surname unknown — was not, properly speaking, a knight of the road, but one who had sought shelter among them and who paid his way by practicing his talent. He was an old anarchist comrade who had served his concept of freedom by engraving really quite excellent Federal Reserve notes without complying with the formality of obtaining permission from the treasury department. Some said that his name had been Phineas; others connected his moniker with his preference for manufacturing five-dollar bills — “big enough to be useful; not big enough to arouse suspicion.”
He made a registration card for Thomas at the request of one of the ‘bos. He talked while Thomas watched him work. “It’s only the registration number that we really have to worry about, son. Practically none of the Asiatics you will run into can read English, so it really doesn’t matter a lot we say about you. ‘Mary had a little lamb — ‘ would probably do.
Same for the photograph. To them, all white men look alike.” He picked up a handful of assorted photographs from his kit and peered at them nearsightedly through thick spectacles. “Here — pick out one of these that looks not unlike you and we will use it. Now for the number — ”
The old man’s hands were shaky, almost palsied, yet they steadied down to a deft sureness as he transferred India ink to cardboard in amazing simulation of machine printing. And this he did without proper equipment, without precision tools, under primitive conditions. Thomas understood why the old artist’s masterpieces caused headaches for bank clerks. “There!” he announced. “I’ve given you a serial number which states that you were registered shortly after the change, and a classification number which permits you to travel. It also says that you are physically unfit for manual labor, and are permitted to peddle or beg. It’s the same thing to their minds.”
“Thanks, awfully,” said Thomas. “Now…uh…what do I owe you for this?”
Finny’s reaction made him feel as if he had uttered some indecency.
“Don’t mention payment, my son! Money is wrong — it’s the means whereby man enslaves his brother.”