Commune 2000 AD. Mack Reynolds

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Englebrecht said, “I understand that you, yourself, live in what amounts to a commune.”

      Was the man completely drivel happy?

      “Admittedly,” the academician said, with a brush of a fat hand, “it is not a clan society. What is the basic idea of the town into which you have retreated?”

      Ted said unhappily, “Possibly ‘retreated’ is valid, but I never thought of it as a commune. We’re a community of possibly a thousand singles.”

      “Singles?” the other said triumphantly, as though he had gained a telling point.

      “Why, yes. None of us are married, though some live together. We have approximately eight hundred homes with a community center. Most of us are people like myself, students, some working in the arts, bachelor types, both male and female, who have jobs but want privacy in their off hours. That sort of thing. But I wouldn’t call it a commune.”

      He felt somewhat desperate. This was falling apart by the minute. The man was flat, he hadn’t the vaguest idea of how things spun. How in the hell could he be holding down a department in a major university city?

      “All right, very well, of course. Your commune, escaping from the pseudocities, stresses singles. Others stress doubles …” Englebrecht chuckled lewdly “… of any sex. Some with children, some without. Others are so-called extended families, where every man is married to every woman and the children are the children of all. And, I submit, isn’t that the communal society of most-primitive man?”

      He didn’t know what he was talking about, and here he was head of the goddamned department, Ted Swain told himself all over again.

      Ted said, with care, “Well, something like that However, although it’s not my subject, I don’t think very many of these present-day communes are based on the extended family. They’re usually based on a community of interest.”

      “How do you mean?”

      “Well, for instance, a new mobile town commune is shaping up in a camping area near where I live. I haven’t been over but I’ve heard about it. There are already some two hundred trailers and other mobile homes. Their, ah, theme is the arts. It’s a mobile art colony. You either have to be an artist, or be deeply interested in the arts. Other mobile towns, so I understand, might consist of none but elderly people, still others, sports-oriented people who take their town from one sporting event to the next.”

      Ted Swain thought about it for a moment, then continued, “Then up in the area they used to call Vermont, I know of an agricultural commune. Modern farming isn’t practical in that area, as we know, so they had no difficulty getting permission from the Production Congress to take over several thousand acres. They farm it in the old manner, even using horses and mules rather than mechanical equipment. I suppose you might say they’re glorified gardeners, rather than farmers, but that’s their hobby, and that’s the theme of their establishment.”

      Brian Fitz came in with the steaming cups of coffee, served first the academician and then his guest.

      Englebrecht was saying, “Of course, fine. Very well. That is exactly what we want. Your task will be to seek out these various communes and find out all there is to find out about them. Acquire your material and then collate it. You might do several papers as you go along. Eventually, you will be able to put it all together and then write your dissertation, say some two hundred pages, comparing the ancient communes with those of the present. My boy, I absolutely guarantee you’ll get your degree.”

      A tiny red light made itself evident on the academician’s desk and he frowned.

      “Confound it, is a man not even safe from interruption in his own escape sanctum? See who that is, Brian.”

      The secretary bustled out.

      Ted Swain was frowning faintly at the patterns of sunlight on the floor. Finally he said, “Just what sort of material did you have in mind?”

      His host rubbed plump hands together in satisfaction. “Everything, my boy. Find out everything; what motivates them, what their goals are. Dig into their economics.”

      “Economics? What economics? They’re practically all on Universal Guaranteed Income, just like the rest of us. One of the reasons they formed into these communes is that they weren’t given jobs on muster day and banded together, retreating into their own hobbies or pleasures.”

      Brian Fitz reentered the room, followed by another man. He said, “Academician Dollar is calling, sir.”

      Franz Englebrecht came to his feet, teaming, his hand outstretched. “Ah, George. A pleasure to see you.”

      Ted Swain stood too. He had never met the man before but had seen him on TV broadcasts on occasion. George O. Dollar was this region’s head of the National Data Banks, a position of no small importance. With the redivision of the former fifty states into more reasonable, easier-to-administer regions, a director of a regional section of the National Data Banks was an impressive rank.

      The newcomer was cut from the same mold as was Englebrecht. That is, he was pushing sixty, was overweight in an era when few persons allowed themselves to be, was conservatively dressed and customarily wore an expression that in an earlier day would have been called that of a politician.

      Dollar reached over the desk and shook Franz Englebrecht’s hand. “We must get together more often. I was in the neighborhood and couldn’t resist dropping by.” He looked questioningly at Ted Swain. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

      “Not at all, not at all, George. Meet Doctor Theodore Swain, one of the candidates under my wing for the academician degree.”

      George Dollar shook Swain’s hand and he and Ted mumbled through the usual amenities while Fitz brought up a chair for the newcomer.

      Dollar laughed pleasantly. “An academician, eh? Well, I’ll tell you, with the new teaching methods so many degrees are being taken that I wouldn’t be surprised if, in the near future, the Education Guild will come up with a higher one, still more difficult to achieve.” He laughed again, in deprecation. “Then we’d have Bachelor’s degree, Master’s, Doctor’s, Academician’s …” He looked over at his friend. “What could we call the next one, Franz?”

      “Zoroaster forbid,” Englebrecht said jovially, reseating himself. “It was all I could do to make academician. It wasn’t as easy as it is today, when we were struggling along, was it, George?”

      Ted Swain said, “It’s not as easy as all that today, either.”

      The data-banks head looked at him. “What’s the subject of your dissertation, Doctor Swain?”

      Ted Swain said unhappily, “Contrasts between primitive and modern communes.”

      “Fascinating. I’m anxious to see it when you publish.”

      “Very kind of you,” Ted muttered.

      “No, I mean it. It will be invaluable to me. I’m anxious to get such a work into the data banks.”

      Ted looked at him. “You mean it’s a good idea?”

      “Certainly it is from my viewpoint. Our coverage of the commune phenomenon is a farce. Any additional СКАЧАТЬ