David Gerrold: A Rage for Revenge

I noticed that some of the people filing into the room were carrying light brown jumpsuits. I wondered what that meant. Perhaps they weren't in a branch of the service. They were coming into the room from all four sides. Their expressions were . . . apprehensive. I wondered what mine looked like. This didn't seem like such a good idea any more. How many of us were there anyway?

I craned my head to count the chairs. The rows were eerily precise; the blocks were absolutely and impeccably square. There were 64 chairs to a block. Two blocks to a side. 128 chairs times Wr sides of the square equals 512 chairs. The last of the chairs ere filling even as I watched. There were no empty chairs that I could see. 512 trainees.

I stood up to look around. There were tables for the assistants placed strategically around the room, mostly along the walls, but there were also tables not too far behind the last row of chairs on each side of the formation. The people sitting behind the tables were expressionless. They too wore blank jumpsuits and numbered name tags. I sat down again, nervously.

I shivered. It was cold in here.

At the end of my row, two gray-haired colonels were talking quietly. Their expressions were sour. I didn't recognize either one of them, but it was obvious that they both had some reservations about being here. They were already trading their opinions. One of the assistants came up the row and stopped in front of them. She was as blank as all the others. She said, "Don't talk to your neighbors."

"Why?" demanded one of the colonels.

The assistant ignored the question and continued up the aisle. The colonel looked angry. She wasn't used to being ignored. She folded her arms in front of her chest and glared. She exchanged an annoyed look with her companion.

My watch beeped. It was precisely 9 A.M.

The Very Reverend Honorable Doctor Daniel Jeffrey Foreman, M.D., Ph.D. strode to the center of the room, stepped up onto the dais and began to look us over. He wore dark pants and a light gray sweater. His white hair floated around his head like a halo. His expression was sharp and steely. He turned slowly, checking us out individually and as a group. I had the sense that he was looking into every set of eyes in the room.

When he finished, he looked to the back of the room and nodded. The screens above his head lit up. They showed a close-up of his face. "Good morning," he said. "Thank you for being here." He smiled as if he were about to tell a joke. "You can say good morning back, if you want to."

There were a few mumbled responses, grunts that sounde vaguely like "G'mrmble." I didn't want to commit myself either. Foreman smiled to himself, as if he were the only one who had gotten the joke. He turned to us and said crisply, "All right. Let's go to work. The purpose of today's session is to create the context for the course. In your language, that means that today is about preparing you for the rest of the sessions. This is the orientation. Today, we will answer your questions." Almost as an aside, he added, "Tomorrow, we will begin to question your answers."

"The first thing that we are going to do is make certain that you belong here. The results of this course will be your responsibility so it has to be your choice to be here. If there is something you need to know, don't sit on it-because while you're sitting there wondering, you're stuck. And while you're stuck, we can't go on! Raise your hand and ask. Don't leave the room not knowing. If you have a question, there are at least a dozen other people sitting on the same question, but afraid to ask. Do them a favor and ask, so we can all go on."

Foreman stepped crisply to the left side of the dais to face the section of the room. The overhead screens cut to a new camara angle; they always showed him from the head-on angle.

"When you are clear about the purpose of this course and your reasons for being here, then we will ask you to commit yourself to completing the course. That means that you will promise to be here on time for every session, for no other reason except that you have promised.

"Therefore, you are going to have to look at your ability I make and keep a commitment.

"If you choose not to make the commitment, you will have I opportunity to leave. That will be the only opportunity to leave. So before you make the choice to stay, you need to be absolutely clear that you are going to be here until the end of the course-or not at all. Everybody got that?"

He looked around the room expectantly. Again that soulpiercing stare.

Nobody spoke. Everybody got it.

"Thank you." Foreman stepped over to the music stand next to the podium and opened the manual there. He flipped past the first few pages until he found what he was looking for. He studied it thoughtfully. After a moment he nodded and then stepped to the third side of the dais, facing a new group again. Once more the overhead screens cut to the head-on angle; I could look at his back or I could look up and see his face. It didn't matter which part of the room he was speaking to, the effect was that he always seemed to be addressing me.

Foreman's voice was resonant. It was clear and penetrating. He had a vibrant quality, like a perfectly tuned cello. "First of all, it is no mistake that you are here. How many of you have been wondering about that?"

More than half the people in the room raised their hands. I raised mine.

"Good," said Foreman. "That's normal. Wondering about it is part of the process. Now let me tell you, no mistakes have been made. You are here because you are supposed to be here. Regardless of how you think you got here. Some of you were invited. Some of you applied. Some of you were recommended. And I know some of you think you were conned. How many of you think you were conned into being here?"

A few people raised their hands. I thought about it and raised mine.

"Good. Thank you for admitting that. It's bullshit, of coursenobody was conned into being here-but thank you for being honest about what you're thinking. It's a good start. This course is about telling the truth. The truth about what you see, what you feel, what you experience, what you know. In here-unlike the real world-there is absolutely no penalty for telling the truth; on the contrary, we demand it. If you're not willing to tell the truth, then please don't be here. Don't waste your time. Don't waste my lime.

"The truth is that you're here because you want to be here. Regardless of whatever stories you told yourselves about why you tlwught it was a good idea to be here, you're here because tmderneath those stories is a genuine curiosity and, yes, even the beginnings of a commitment. Not one of you was dragged into this room. I know, I saw. I stood outside and watched you arrive. You all walked in of your own volition. That was the test and you passed it.

"You have now completed the hardest part of the course. Getting here. Congratulations." He looked satisfied. He smiled at us. The effect was terrifying. "You can acknowledge that, if you wish." He applauded us, so we applauded ourselves-but not without some puzzlement.

Foreman said, "I mean it. Congratulations. It's a privilege to be here. Most of the people on the planet didn't make it. Most of them died rather than be here." He paused to let that sink in.

"There are five hundred and twelve of you. Two hundred and eighty-two women, two hundred and thirty men. In here, your job is to represent the entire human species. For the duration of this course, you are the human species. At the end of this program, when you return to your previous occupations, or to your new assignments as the case may be, you will be called upon to make choices that will affect the entire human species. So this course is about that responsibility-and the way you handle it."

A woman stood up then. She looked Chinese, but she had an African hair style. Fourth world? "Dr. Foreman," she said. "I protest."