Kemal could hardly say that the bloody warfare of the old world was much of an improvement over this. But it was different, and in his mind, at least, it was different specifically because of Naog. If he had not ridden out the flood to tell his story of the true God who forbade sacrifice, the old world would not have been the same. New civilizations might have risen more quickly, with no stories warning of the danger of city life. And those new civilizations might all have worshiped the same Dragon, or some other, as hungry for human flesh as the gods of the new world were hungry for human blood
On the day that Kemal became sure that his Noah had actually changed the world, he was satisfied. He said little and wrote nothing about his conclusion. This surprised even him, for in all the months and years that he had searched hungrily for Atlantis, and then for Noah, and then for the meaning of Noah's saga, Kemal had assumed that, like Schliemann, he would publish everything, he would tell the world the great truth that he had found. But to his surprise he discovered that he must not have searched so far for the sake of science, or for fame, or for any other motive than simply to know, for himself, that one person's life amounted to something. Naog changed the world, but then so did Zawada, and so did Kormo, and so did the servant who skinned his elbows running down the hill, and so did Naog's father and mother, and ... and in the end, so did they all. The great forces of history were real, after a fashion. But when you examined them closely, those great forces always came down to the dreams and hungers and judgments of individuals. The choices they made were real. They mattered
Apparently that was all that Kemal had needed to know. The next day he could think of no reason to go to work. He resigned from his position at the head of the Atlantis project. Let others do the detail work. Kemal was well over thirty now, and he had found the answer to his great question, and it was time to get down to the business of living
BUT WE TRY NOT TO ACT LIKE IT
There was no line. Hiram Cloward commented on it to the pointy-faced man behind the counter. "There's no line."
"This is the complaint department. We pride ourselves on having few complaints." The pointy-faced man had a prim little smile that irritated Hiram. "What's the matter with your television?"
"It shows nothing but soaps, that's what's the matter. And asinine gothics."
"Well-- that's programming, sir, not mechanical at all."
"It's mechanical. I can't turn the damn set off."
"What's your name and social security number?"
"Hiram Cloward. 528-80-693883-7."
"Address?"
"ARF-487-U7b."
"That's singles, sir. Of course you can't turn off your set."
"You mean because I'm not married I can't turn off my television?"
"According to congressionally authorized scientific studies carried out over a
three-year period from 1989 to 1991, it is imperative that persons living alone have the constant companionship of their television sets."
"I like solitude. I also like silence."
"But the Congress passed a law, sir, and we can't disobey the law--"
"Can't I talk to somebody intelligent?"
The pointy-faced man flared a moment, his eyes burning. But he instantly regained his composure, and said in measured tones, "As a matter of fact, as soon as any complainant becomes offensive or hostile, we immediately refer them to section A-6." "What's that, the hit squad?" "It's behind that door." And Hiram followed the pointing finger to the glass door at the far end of the
waiting room. Inside was an office, which was filled with comfortable, homey knickknacks, several chairs, a desk, and a man so offensively nordic that even Hitler would have resented him. "Hello," the Aryan said, warmly.
"Hi." "Please, sit down." Hiram sat, the courtesy and warmth making him feel even more resentful-- did
they think they could fool him into believing he was not being grossly imposed upon? "So you don't like something about your programming?" said the Aryan.
"Your programming, you mean. It sure as hell isn't mine. I don't know why Bell Television thinks it has the right to impose its idea of fun and entertainment on me twenty-four hours a day, but I'm fed up with it. It was bad enough when there was some variety, but for the last two months I've been getting nothing but soaps and gothics."
"It took you two months to notice?" "I try to ignore the set. I like to read. You can bet that if I had more than my stinking little pension from our loving government, I could pay to have a room
where there wasn't a TV so I could have some peace." "I really can't help your financial situation. And the law's the law." "Is that all I'm going to hear from you? The law? I could have heard that from
the pointy-faced jerk out there." "Mr. Cloward, looking at your records, I can certainly see that soaps and gothics
are not appropriate for you." "They aren't appropriate," Hiram said, "for anyone with an IQ over eight." The Aryan nodded. "You feel that people who enjoy soaps and gothics aren't
the intellectual equals of people who don't." "Damn right. I have a Ph.D. in literature, for heaven's sake!" The Aryan was all sympathy. "Of course you don't like soaps! I'm sure it's a mistake. We try not to make mistakes, but we're only human-- except the computers, of course." It was a joke, but Hiram didn't laugh. The Aryan kept up the small talk as he looked at the computer terminal that he could see and Hiram could not. "We may be the only television company in town, you know, but--"
"But you try not to act like it."
"Yes. Ha. Well, you must have heard our advertising."
"Constantly."
"Well, let's see now. Hiram Cloward, Ph.D. Nebraska 1981. English literature, twentieth century, with a minor in Russian literature. Dissertation on Dostoevski's influence on English-language novelists. A near-perfect class attendance record, and a reputation for arrogance and competence."
"How much do you know about me?"
"Only the standard consumer research data. But we do have a bit of a problem."
Hiram waited, but the Aryan merely punched a button, leaned back, and looked
at Hiram. His eyes were kindly and warm and intense. It made Hiram uncomfortable.
"Mr. Cloward."
"Yes?"
"You are unemployed."
"Not willingly."
"Few people are willingly unemployed, Mr. Cloward. But you have no job. You also have no family. You also have no friends."
"That's consumer research? What, only people with friends buy Rice Krispies?"
"As a matter of fact, Rice Krispies are favored by solitary people. We have to know who is more likely to be receptive to advertising and we direct our programming accordingly."
Hiram remembered that he ate Rice Krispies for breakfast almost every morning. He vowed on the spot to switch to something else. Quaker Oats, for instance. Surely they were more gregarious. "You understand the importance of the Selective Programming Broadcast Act of 1985, yes?"
"Yes."