Commune 2000 AD. Mack Reynolds

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      Ted shifted slightly in his chair. “That was just what we were discussing when you entered, sir.”

      Englebrecht looked at the newcomer. “Any suggestions, George?”

      The other grimaced thoughtfully. “Why, yes. And if Doctor Swain will contact me later, I’ll have additional ones. I’ll put some of my boys on it.” He turned to Ted, who was now feeling considerably better about the whole thing. “The communes differ radically, you undoubtedly know. It is difficult to find any two that are basically the same. Each has a different theme …” was that word again. “Each, uh, goes to hell in its own way. And almost all of them cooperate very poorly with the National Data Banks, and statistics in general. Most seem in sullen revolt against the data banks.”

      He made a gesture with both hands, as though in despair. “Our civilization is based on data banks and the computers. How can we serve these people if they don’t keep us informed?”

      He pursed his lips in thought and cocked his head slightly. “Almost any data on the make-up of these communes is of value to us; their raison d’être, their goals, their composition, so far as age groups, sexes, political beliefs and …”

      “Political beliefs?” Ted said.

      “Yes, certainly. An increasing number of the communards don’t participate in even the civil elections. Most aren’t eligible to participate in the guild elections, because they hold no jobs, but they don’t bother to vote in the civil elections, either. To put it bluntly, they’re anarchists.”

      Ted Swain looked at the data-banks man. “Under our system, no person is obligated to vote. Nor, for that matter, to submit statistics on himself to his data-bank dossier.”

      “That is true, though I’m not sure that there shouldn’t be such requirements. For the individual’s own good, understand? For instance, your medical record. Theoretically, from the time of your birth—even before, since we have the records of your parents and often your grandparents—every report on your health, every time you consult a doctor, is filed away. Suppose you are a resident of this Eastern area of our country but take a trip out to the West Coast and have an accident. Within moments, the doctor who treats you can have your complete medical record.”

      “Admittedly,” Ted nodded. “But on the other hand, any National Security officer who busts you also has a complete record of your criminal career.”

      Englebrecht laughed in deprecation. “Why not? Who in the world has a criminal record these days?”

      “Some of those who live in the more far-out communes,” Dollar replied wryly. “Crime might be at a minimum, nowadays, since we’ve dispensed with money, but there is still some, usually psychopathic. The data banks should have records, even of criminals, for the sake of the criminal. How can he be treated if we don’t know what’s wrong with him?”

      Dollar was pursing his lips. He said, “It occurs to me, Doctor Swain, that you are in an ideal position to make your investigation. You’ll be far more efficient than representatives from the data banks. They won’t suspect you. You can pretend that you wish to join them. You’re in the most favorable age group, have no present job position, are single—in short, an ideal recruit for any of a hundred or more of these communes.”

      Englebrecht beamed. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Exactly what I had in mind.”

      They discussed it further, both of the older men making suggestions on just what Ted should seek out in his research. Both demanded that he keep in touch with them, and allow them to peruse his early papers. Both thought that they would have additional suggestions when they had mulled it over a bit.

      When Ted left, the other visitor stayed on, obviously to chat about old times. Two sixty-year-old cronies, reliving their youths.

      In the elevator, returning to the motor pool in the basements of the administration building, Ted worried it over. He had the damnedest feeling that, in spite of the manner in which the conversation had gone, Dollar had already known about his proposed dissertation before he had entered. That his dropping in and inadvertently meeting Ted was a put-up matter, rehearsed beforehand.

      For one thing, how had George Dollar known that Ted Swain was both without employment and single? No one had mentioned those facts, though Englebrecht knew of them.

      The thing was that it didn’t make sense. What possible reason could the two have to snowball him into researching the communes?

Chapter Four

      When he arrived back at his home in the community of West Hurley, it was to receive a slap in the face.

      Ted Swain was a bachelor. He had never been married. As it is sometimes with bachelors, he kept his establishment spotless. Everything had its place, everything was immaculate. It was a source of amazement to his feminine visitors, who usually expected unmade beds, dirty glasses and dishes, unswept floors and the rest. But not Ted Swain’s.

      Thus it was that when he entered he knew almost immediately that the place had been ransacked. The job had been neatly done, and obviously whoever had gone through the house had made an effort to disguise the fact. But it couldn’t be hidden from Ted Swain. A writing stylo, which he invariably kept on the right side of his desk, was on the left. A file of his notes was not in exactly the same order as he had left it. There were other discrepancies.

      Nothing seemed to be missing, nothing at all. But what could have been missing? He had nothing worth stealing. Petty crime and burglary were all but unknown in this age. Why steal when your Universal Guaranteed Income provided you with all you needed?

      Mystified, he dialed the National Data Banks and requested a report on who had been recorded on his door identity screen that day. The computers automatically filed such information. It came in handy if you wanted to check on visitors who might have called while you were away from home.

      He could only stare when the NDB reported that his identity screen had not recorded anyone.

      He wandered around the house, his face twisted in disbelief. The intruder couldn’t possibly have come in through the windows; they automatically locked when he left the house, unless he set them otherwise. Their glass was unbreakable, or nearly so, so it made no difference. And they weren’t broken. The only entry was through the front door, or through the back, which led onto his Japanese-style rock garden. The back door, too, had been locked, and it also had an identity screen.

      It was simply impossible. He knew the house had been searched, but by whom, and to what end, simply was unanswerable. He was a university scholar; he had no secrets, nothing of value beyond a few family keepsakes, meaningless to anyone else.

      He gave up.

      The stimmy he had taken that morning for studying had worn off, but he didn’t take another. It was pushing lunch time.

      However, he couldn’t resist a quick initial approach to his subject. The enthusiasm of both of the older men had resolved some of his original misgivings. If the local head of the data banks thought a dissertation on the communes was a natural, who was Ted Swain to say him nay? He sat down at his library-booster screen.

      He had difficulty locating the subject. Well, that wasn’t quite the way to put it. In actuality, there was so precious little to locate that he couldn’t believe it.

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