Himself

For 806 days between July 1967 and October 1969, Anthony Grey, a correspondent for Britain's Reuters wire service, was kept in solitary confinement, without charges, in Peking. His quarters were claustrophobically small. His diet was meager. At first, he was permitted a total of three books, on chess, yoga and communism (later, he stole a fourth, Doctor Zhivago). Desperately lonely, constantly humiliated and harassed, he was in fear of mental collapse. "To occupy my mind constructively," he says, "I took to creating crossword puzzles and writing short stories. I frequently hid the papers, and for some reason I was never searched and was able to get all my writings out safely when I was released." One of the short stories he wrote during this time begins on this page. It has nothing to do with China, nor communism, nor his confinement. It is neither bitter nor despairing. On the contrary, it is a charming fantasy in which the human body functions as a departmentalized bureaucracy. It was suggested to Grey by a line in the yoga book: "Each of the millions of cells in man's body is as a living being on its own." Grey tells us: "So, tongue in cheek, the story of Himself was gradually built up. I was uneasy about'em-barking on it, since, because of its setting in the parathyroid glands, I wondered whether it might make me obsessed with the glands in my own throat. But I decided to chance it and, to my delight, found I so enjoyed writing the story that I didn't stop to worry." The very existence of the tale--to say nothing of its engaging whimsy and inventiveness--is a tribute to Grey's strength and inner resources in the face of treatment deliberately designed to shatter his spirit. He says: "Often two words would recur to me in that room in Peking: 'Nothing matters!' But life always matters--very much."

Cell number 10047 closed the file he had been working on with a snap, placed it in the supervisor's in tray and said, with a hint of boredom in his voice, "Estimated calcium requirements for maintaining hardness of two hundred and six bones, twenty-nine teeth and twenty toe- and fingernails during the coming month, all present and correct, sir!"

The supervisor of the Parathyroid Subsection regarded the young cell for a moment and remarked mildly, "I don't think there is any need for military overtones in the work of this department. And you might make a note that we may be losing one, if not two, teeth in the near future, bringing the number down to twenty-eight or possibly twenty-seven, thereby reducing future estimated needs."

"Oh, have you heard something from upstairs?" asked 10047 in the offhand manner he affected. "Couple of Himself's molars dickey, are they?"

The supervisor, who thought the young cell's manner was bordering on impertinence, let a tinge of his disapproval show in the tone of his reply. "It has been intimated to me from the Central Executive Offices that we are to have an inspection of the two teeth soon, since they have been giving us some trouble. Nothing further is certain at the moment. By the way, the deterioration is no reflection on the work of this department, I am told."

The supervisor allowed himself the indulgence of a smug smile. The older cell always used the royal or pontifical we when referring to the organization in its entirety. In his young days, terms such as upstairs and Himself were unheard of. And no doubt these young upstarts had a whole range of such dreadful slang. His father before him, his grandfather before him and his grandfather's father before that had all supervised the Parathyroid Subsection and the line stretched back to the subsection's very inception. It seemed to him that youngsters today weren't what they used to be. Didn't have the same sense of service in them.

The network of pipes, thick and thin, ducts and canals that ran past the Parathyroid Subsection hummed and throbbed quietly but rhythmically with their usual morning efficiency. They looked for all the world like the complex pipelines of a giant chemical plant. There was an occasional gurgle from one of the ducts.

"Where would you say we are now?" asked 10047 of the supervisor, idly. He thought perhaps his senior would be flattered by this appeal to his superior experience. Calm his ruffled feathers, perhaps.

"In the eight-twenty to Liverpool Street, I would guess," replied the supervisor after a moment. He cocked his head and listened to the sounds coming from outside the department. "I should say we're quietly reading our newspaper at present." He coughed slightly, the way cells do, and pretended to busy himself with the cellular papers before him.

He wasn't going to show he was pleased at this unusual display of respect for his seniority from an underling. There was a long pause. It was quiet in the department this morning. The innumerable dials and gauges held steady on their norms. There was the usual subdued bustle in the back, the workshops section, as the delivery workers--10047 called them members of the Red Corps--unloaded the oxygen needed for the section's small-scale production and carted away carbon-dioxide drums for disposal. Elsewhere, enzyme specialists prepared shipments of calcium in the blood plasma, to be sent on to proper addresses in the system. There was no hint of the high drama to come.

"Exactly how old are we now?" asked 10047, trying to fight off the overpowering feeling of boredom that always came over him at this time each day.

"Established 1933. We have been in business now for a little over thirty-five years," said the supervisor. He was becoming a little suspicious of the young cell's innocent questions.

The unmistakable sound of half a dozen landing craft going by laden with armed troops came from an enclosed canal that ran close by.

"There go some more lads of the White Corps off to the front to fight the foreign foe," said 10047 lightly, after listening to them pass.

"Oh," said the supervisor, raising his cellular eyebrows, "since you seem so well informed, perhaps you might tell us where they are going--these 'lads of the White Corps.'" He liked white corpuscles to be called white corpuscles or at least white cells.

"I-understand there's been a bit of trouble up on the nape of the neck these past few days," said 10047 airily. "Small invasion by foreign group. Nothing special. Usual sort of scrap. We lost a few, but I think it's mostly cleared up by now. I fancy those boyos are going up more for mopping up than anything else. The White Corps' chief is in a bit of a flap, apparently. Just when he wanted all the air he could get to help him seal off the area, Himself apparently goes and bangs a plaster on the outside--what he calls a small boil--completely gumming up the works. The chief's been on to upstairs about it and they hope to get Himself to tear it off later today. But they don't promise anything. You know what they are, 'We can only recommend and advise.'" 10047 mimicked the last phrase in a bureaucratic voice.

Then he noticed with a sudden pang of unease that the supervisor was regarding him with unusual intent-ness. In his desire to show off his knowledge of affairs, had he perhaps been indiscreet?

"Tell me just exactly how you know all that," said the supervisor, speaking very quietly.

"Um, well," 10047 hesitated and flushed slightly as cells are wont to do. "I've...um, I've got a pal in one of the departments upstairs," he said finally, not knowing how this would be received.

"And how, exactly, do you get in touch with him, since you never leave this department?"

10047 glanced round at the little desk instruments in the department, the terminals of the vast communications network. He listened to the soft hum from the trunk lines outside as messages whizzed back and forth between the Central Executive Offices and all departments at speeds of around 300 miles per hour. His gaze rested for a moment on the junction boxes marked sensory system, voluntary motor system and Autonomic system. He took a deep breath and said, with a rush, "Well, we sometimes have a chat through the old communications network--only in the absolutely quiet times, when there's no other traffic," he added hastily, realizing his chief was likely to be displeased.

"I hardly need to remind you," said the supervisor severely, "of the seriousness of misusing the communications." But he didn't say more. He was secretly impressed by his subordinate's contact and already realized it might be of help to him sometime in short-circuiting normal channels.

"Who is your 'pal'?" he asked at length, a slight sarcastic inflection on the last word.

"B. C. 1474729," replied the young cell, using the B. C. prefix enviously. If there ever came a chance, he would dearly love to become a B. C. (Brain Cell). All the others were entitled to the L. C. (Living Cell) prefix, but nobody ever used it, since it was so common.

The supervisor, remembering he should be more reproving, cut sharply into the L. C.'s thoughts.

"Have you no work to do, 10047?"

"Well, nothing that isn't absolutely routine and rather dull," the young cell replied, surprised at his own boldness, "and rather than spread it thinly over the day, I can pack it all away in half an hour later on."

The supervisor raised his cellular eyebrows again but said nothing. He imagined this look combined majestic aloofness, imperious disdain and dignified apartness appropriate in a departmental head.

"What I mean is," said 10047, deciding to crash on, "the work here isn't very exciting, is it? Now, if I were down in Adrenals, it would be different. Just imagine! Life being concerned solely with danger and excitement. Waiting at the ready to shovel out a lashing of the precious adrenaline into the jolly old network. Then sitting back and watching the old pipelines constrict, all the pressure gauges going up, the whole works throbbing at a new, faster level, going flat-out, key pitch, bang, bang, bang!"

He stopped and looked at the supervisor. Perhaps it wouldn't do to get too carried away.

"Your work here is equally important, if less spectacular," the older cell said with a firm note of censure. "And perhaps one thing you haven't considered, our far superior position. We are pleasantly situated adjoining Thyroid Departments in a high frontal position that is eminently desirable. Adrenals Division, of which you seem inordinately fond, on the other hand, have their two sections well down in the"--he paused and a note of distaste crept into his voice"--in the lumbar region, directly adjoining the Decontamination and Filter Plants at Area Kidney."

10047 made no reply to this. How typical the old celliferous fool should think more about their position on the map than what they did!

"Of course," said 10047, letting his voice go a little dreamy, as cells can, "if ever there came a chance to remuster, which I know is without precedent, I should really like to go upstairs." He paused reflectively, then continued even more dreamily:

"Pituitary Control...." He let the words roll deliciously off his tongue. "Pituitary Control, what Himself would call the master gland. Send a team of hormones here, send a team of hormones there and all the L. C.s behind the doors marked Thyroid department, Parathyroid subsection, Pancreas, Adrenals Divisions and the others jump to your commands. Position, influence, respect! Or even to move into the rarefied atmosphere of the central executive offices themselves. The gray, computerized complex corridors of power! Cranium House! The Whitehall of our world!" He stopped suddenly and looked up. "Hello, what's happening to the old plumbing?"

The steady quiet rhythm in the pipelines had suddenly increased. The lights in the department were burning brighter. There was an uptempo pounding from the whole network. Everybody in the department instinctively turned expectant eyes to the automatic warning board. But the red emergency sign didn't come on, nor did the action-stations hooter sound. After a few moments, the rhythm began to slow and soon returned to normal.

"Well," said 10047, letting out a long breath, "talking of the boys in Adrenals, that was clearly their doing! Wonder what it was. Didn't last long, anyway, did it? Perhaps someone fired off by mistake. I shall have to ask my palupstairs."

Somewhere far below the Parathyroid Subsection, the Fuel Refinery and Processing Division and its several satellite construction and maintenance units had already begun work on a new consignment of raw materials that had recently arrived. Refinery's chief engineer was on the line to somebody on high in Central Executive.

"How do you find today's first delivery, Chief?" the B. C. was saying. "We had more time than usual today to think of you."

"Fine, just fine--in itself," the chief added with that note of reserve that every good N. C. O. knew indicated respectfully to the officer and gentleman with whom he was dealing that things were not quite as they might be. He waited for his cue, so that the officer and gentleman could think later that his astute perception uncovered the problem.

"Something's bothering you, Chief, I divine," said the voice of the B. C. on the line, taking up the bait nicely.

"Well, sir, we're all very pleased to see bacon, coffee, eggs, butter and so on back in the consignment today. It's some time since we've seen that, sir. We'd begun to get accustomed to much less and even no morning delivery at all on occasions."

"Well, Chief," the finely modulated tones of the B. C. broke in. "You know how it is. We are a frantically busy up-and-coming bachelor business executive who does things in a hurry, works late, sleeps little." He laughed the little laugh of a superior confiding in a subordinate.

"That's as may be, sir, but with due respect"--the chief had decided to persist--"it's not going to be good enough. You know, sir, as well as I that it's not only the morning delivery that has been a bit haphazard. Two large measures of whiskey and a very small quantity of bread, butter and ham at midday, hurriedly consigned, does not make the most of the processing equipment at our disposal. To coin a phrase, sir, it's underemployed."

The B. C. began to interrupt.

"Ah, I know what you're going to say, sir. It's made up for later, often with a very heavy consignment late in the evening. Quite right. But you know, it's the wrong time and, once again with due respect, doesn't always help us in richness ratios. Overall, sir, we've dipped fairly heavily into the glucose reserves held at Liver Pool. They're almost out there. The next thing, we'll have to go over to fats conversion with according weight loss. And my people dealing with alcohol are rarely underemployed," he added in a matter-of-fact voice. Then he continued in what he hoped might be construed by his listener as an ominous tone.

"I'm having my maintenance chaps keep a very careful daily eye on the Duodenum Section of the pipeline--regular inspections for signs of construction stress, material fatigue--we can't be too careful on duodenal faults. What we should like down here is regular, balanced deliveries three times daily, sir. It's in our best interests."

"Ok, Chief, I'll do what I can. But you know the position up here. We don't have the final decision on these things...." The chief engineer, raising his cellular eyes heavenward, chanted under his breath in unison with the B. C. the final inevitable phrase--"We can only recommend and advise."

He hung up and went back to his work, shaking his head in that peculiar way cells have.

Upstairs, the B. C. put down his instrument and remarked to a colleague with a laugh, "Chiefy's carping about irregularity of supplies again. I suppose we'd better have another go at it."

He drew a memo pad toward him and began to write. His printed heading was addressed to "I," who was they knew not what exactly, and who dwelt they knew not where. They were not even sure where the memos they composed eventually arrived. They were whisked away on the internal postal system and disappeared forever in the maze of the gray corridors. They could, indeed, only recommend and advise to the attention of the mysterious, omnipresent, omnipotent, yet evanescent, "I."

• • •

Back in the Parathyroid Subsection, L. C. 10047 had just finished making a quick and very discreet call to his palupstairs.

"Well, well, well," he said slowly and a little tantalizingly, as he knew the supervisor was eagerly waiting for the news, "that is interesting." He wore a broad celliferous grin.

"Know what the cause of all the excitement was?" he asked, addressing the supervisor and all the other expectant L. C.s in the department. Obviously they didn't, and after one or two had chorused rather testily "No, no, what was it?," 10047 deigned to let them in on the somewhat spicy secret.

"New secretary!" he said smugly. "What we were treated to was the reaction of Himself to the first sight of his new secretary on arrival at the office. According to information received from the two observation outlets in the mighty Optics Unit, her L. C.s are really stacked, lads, really stacked! A regular dish of the most succulent variety, I am told. Judging from what we noticed here, I should think it was a case of lust at first sight!"

There was a little buzz of discussion at this.

Half aloud, half to himself, 10047 mused on the topic. "Just imagine, a fine, gently undulating, soft, fragrant, warm, splendidly stacked assemblage of feminine L. C.s.

"Wouldn't mind getting involved with something in that direction myself." He had been gazing dreamily into the middle distance. As he focused again, he realized the supervisor had been listening. "Of course," he continued, "if there were to be any chance of that, I'd have to change direction in my remustering intentions, wouldn't I? It wouldn't be a matter of going up, but of going down! Have to get myself a slot in the glamor department, wouldn't I?"

The supervisor lost his breath at this. He tried to cough to hide it, choked, spluttered and went red in his cellular face. Only after several minutes was he able to speak again.

"If by the glamor department you mean the Reproduction Unit, I suggest you use its correct term." He turned away abruptly but, to his own surprise, found he was having to suppress a smile at the unconventional nomenclature employed by the young 10047.

In the early evening, 10047 announced gleefully to his Parathyroid (continued on page 214)Himself(continued from page 98) Subsection colleagues that Herself was to be taken to dinner that evening--for so had he already dubbed the new secretary who had made such an impressive impact earlier in the day. 10047 had picked up this latest intelligence from another surreptitious chat with his B. C. friend.

By 9:30 P.M., Fuel Refinery and Processing's disgruntled chief was aware that it was likely to be something of a gala night in his division. What was clearly going to be a long and steady consignment of a wide variety had begun. The wines-and-spirits range was already impressive. In addition to the familiar Scotch spirit, early on there had been an aperitif, and two kinds of wine had just been sent down. Chiefy had already predicted publicly to his subordinates that they would see champagne arrive as well before the night was out. There had been a wide selection of hors d'oeuvres, a very good and useful turtle soup with sherry that had clearly been set afire in a thimble-sized ladle immediately before the union. Now there was smoked salmon and daintily sliced brown bread. The division was settling down, under the chief's eye, to a long spell of overtime again tonight.

The chief took a call from Central Executive. It was the same B. C. he had spoken to earlier.

"Well, Chief, trust you're happy with what we're doing for you tonight," he said very jovially.

"Aye, sir. There's some good-quality raw material arriving, right enough," replied the chief in his taciturn way.

"There'll be plenty more yet, Chief, plenty more, before the night's out. Roast pheasant, cranberry sauce, game, chips"--he reeled off a string of commodities, half of which the chief couldn't catch. There was something a little odd about the B. C., he thought--"crepes suzette or possibly strawberries and cream"--he was still going on--"and champagne to finish with!" he concluded breathlessly.

"Aye, I thought that would be it, sir," said the chief, "Very good, then, sir, if there's nothing else, I'll be getting back to my work."

"No, that's all. Oh, about that other thing earlier today. I've written a memo. Can't do more, can we?" The B. C. laughed loudly. "Well, keep up the good work, Chief," he added flippantly and went off.

The chief puzzled over the B. C.'s unusually erratic behavior as he went back to work. If he hadn't known it was too early to be possible, he would have said it was a case of inebriation. At last he gave it up. Of course, the chief had no way of knowing that the first heady moments of love and infatuation with a beautiful girl can sometimes produce an effect that is very similar to intoxication. All the B. C.s tonight found themselves unaccountably bright and frivolous, found themselves being terribly clever and in form--and sometimes even a bit silly, too!

Much later, L. C. 10047, fresh from a call upstairs, gave a progress report to his gossip-hungry colleagues. "Seems our dinner was a roaring success. We seem to be making a big impression with Herself. We were right at the top of our wits tonight. Oh, my word, we were funny and amusing and charming and everything rolled into one." 10047 struck a few exaggerated cellular attitudes to illustrate his report in what he imagined was a satirical vein.

"We are at present at Herself's apartment for a nightcap, having gallantly escorted her home, and we are now, if you please"--he rolled his eyes heavenward--"playing with Herself's pet kitten. Or should I say trying to, since the creature apparently has contrived to get itself out the window and is crouching on a narrow ledge, refusing to budge. The apartment, I might add, is twelve stories up in a fashionable part of London. At the time of my call upstairs, Himself, to the considerable amusement of a lot of B. C.s, was leaning out the window, endeavoring to entice the creature in, watched by the anxious but adoring Herself."

Further ironic comment from 10047 was suddenly stifled by an abrupt step-up in the tempo of activity in the surrounding pipelines. The lights brightened to a new intensity and the L. C.s of Parathyroid Subsection waited expectantly to see what the development meant. The level of activity held at about that noticed earlier in the day, perhaps slightly higher.

"Well," said 10047 reflectively after a pause, "I should think there could be two explanations. Either we have already rescued the kitten and are being suitably rewarded by Herself or we are attempting something heroically risky and impressive in order to do same."

The supervisor, his voice very serious, broke in. "I think you can forget about your first guess, 10047. Experience has taught me to distinguish roughly among different stimuli for accelerated employment of all capacities. I think we are committed to a possibly dangerous situation."

There was a tense silence. Slowly but unmistakably, the tempo was increasing. Pipelines were constricting, pressure gauges showed increased readings.

It seemed certain to the waiting L. C.s that they were out on the narrow ledge 12 stories up over London, crawling along it to reach the kitten. All eyes were fixed on the automatic warning board, to see if the situation would develop into an ultimate state of emergency.

"I suppose," breathed 10047, his cellular face set in unusually grim lines, "the only way Himself could possibly know how we L. C.s feel in such situations would be for him to be in a submarine in some kind of difficulty." Nobody replied. Tension was rising with the tempo of what was now clearly danger mobilization of resources.

Although they had been aware of the possibility of its sounding, the raucous and repeated rasp of the action-stations hooter startled them when it came. The red emergency sign blazed on. Lighting reached full intensity. With hardly a sign from the supervisor, the subsection's staff slipped smoothly into its assigned role. The subsection shut down its supply intake to an absolute minimum, since it had no active part to play in the emergency.

Its role, like many of the units in the organization, was one of minimum interference. But Adrenals Division was working flat-out. It was feeding in large quantities of its rich fuel. Pressure gauges showed that maximum pressure was now obtaining. Pipeline constriction was also maximum and the pumping rate had doubled. The pounding throb of maximum mobilization gripped the entire organization.

The L. C.s of Parathyroid Subsection waited, keyed up and on edge--most of them had never experienced anything as serious as this before. Then the sixth-sense wall announcer, rarely ever used, crackled to life. The L. C.s held their breath. It was "I" making a direct announcement to all points.

"The situation is extremely serious," the authoritative voice said. It was not difficult to detect the edge of high tension in it, either. But "I" did not gabble the announcement, despite the extreme nature of the emergency.

"At present, we are hanging by our finger tips from a ledge twelve stories up with solid-concrete pavement far below. We almost fell while crawling onto the ledge but managed to make a grab to assume the present very difficult position. I want all to make the greatest possible effort to contribute to the attempt to hang on until help arrives.

"I need hardly say what the consequences of failure to do so will be. I know most of you run yourselves, in effect, most of the time, quite independently of anything I might do, but this is one occasion when a supreme effort is required or there will be no question of running yourselves in the future. You know what I mean.... Thank you, everybody."

The wall announcer crackled and went silent. The tension had become almost unbearable. The moments ticked by. The L. C.s, knowing their fate hung in the balance quite literally, were silent, motionless. All energy and power were concentrated on the vital extremity areas involved in the survival task of holding on.

The supervisor did, however, whisper briefly to 10047. "See, now, the importance of your work. The strength of some of your well-maintained two hundred and six bones is now contributing an essential part to our endurance."

10047 nodded respectfully, looking drawn and serious.

Moments stretched into minutes. The emergency indicator still blazed out. The pounding tempo did not slacken. Surely this mighty effort could not be sustained much longer in such adverse conditions. Suddenly there was a great lurch and an entirely new and terrifying sensation was felt. Plunging, falling, the subsection seemed to turn end over end. The lights seemed to whirl and swim above, then below. Down, down, plummeting down, long and slowly and awfully.

Then another, more terrifying, lurching, shuddering impact. Now it seemed there was a sensation of rising, shooting upward, but faster than in any lift. Then down once again, much shorter this time, and another bone-shaking, breath-taking impact. A tumbling sensation--and they were at rest. The L. C.s who had endured this gripped with terror looked uncomprehendingly about them. The lights were still on at full brightness. That seemed to be favorable. The emergency rhythm continued. But just as they began to breathe sighs of relief, the lights flickered and dimmed abruptly to an eerie blue glow. They all looked anxiously to the supervisor in the strange gloom for an explanation.

"I think I'm right in saying," he said almost in a whisper, "that we've fainted." He peered through the strange light. "This is not the deep indigo that one remembers experiencing on sudden devastating departures from consciousness on the rugger field. At the risk of being unduly optimistic, I would say--following that terrible and quite unprecedented falling sensation--that some kind of soft impact was achieved. We must await patiently full details of its outcome and damage, if any."

At that moment, lights flickered up again to a dim working level. Along the parasympathetic lines of communication, messages were buzzing, bringing the racing machinery back to its normal, even, subdued rhythm.

10047 itched to talk with his pal upstairs but knew that in this postcrisis period, it was quite impossible. He would have to wait patiently until the morning. He didn't know it now, but then he would discover and announce to the eagerly receptive L. C.s of his department that they were in hospital. Just for observation, you know. No serious damage. A few bruises, that was all. Be out in a few days at the most. Himself had suffered a bit of shock. Had clung to the ledge by his finger tips for nearly ten minutes. By then, the fire brigade had rushed to the scene and got one of its jumping things ready down below--you know, the things suitable for plunging into from great heights of burning buildings. It had been a rather good effort all round, actually, 10047 would find himself saying. Good, solid, dependable bone construction had played a big part. A lot of important work to be done in these subsections. Of course, L. C. 10047 wouldn't realize it, but he himself would be suffering a bit from shock for a few days, too.

The chief engineer of the Fuel Refinery and Processing Division didn't yet know, either, that he would be pleased with the coming few days. Quiet, very regular consignments of supplies. No trouble with richness ratios, since all that was nicely balanced and worked out by experts in that sort of thing. And in the near future, the chief would become even more pleased when he learned of the merger of the entire organization with another--dubbed Herself by 10047. One result of this merger would be that the part of the business with which the chief was concerned would benefit greatly under the new management and good regular consignments of supplies would become an everyday occurrence. When he finally learned of this, the chief would grin that slow grin of satisfaction--the one that cells do so engagingly.