SENTRY OF THE SKY
BY EVELYN E. SMITH
Illustrated by RITTER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine February 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There had to be a way for Sub-Archivist
Clarey to get up in the world—but this
way was right out of the tri-di dramas.
Clarey had checked in at Classification Center so many times that hecame now more out of habit than hope. He didn't even look at the cardthat the test machine dropped into his hand until he was almost to theportway. And then he stopped. "Report to Room 33 for reclassification,"it said.
Ten years before, Clarey would have been ecstatic, sure thatreclassification could be only in one direction. The machine hadnot originally given him a job commensurate with his talents; whyshould it suddenly recognize them? He'd known of people who had beenreclassified—always downward. I'm a perfectly competent Sub-Archivist,he told himself; I'll fight.
But he knew fighting wouldn't help. All he had was the right to refuseany job he could claim was not in his line; the government would thenbe obligated to continue his existence. There were many people who didsubsist on the government dole: the aged and the deficient and thedefective—and creative artists who refused to trammel their spiritsand chose to be ranked as Unemployables. Clarey didn't fit into thosecategories.
Dispiritedly, he passed along innumerable winding corridors and upand down ramps that twisted and turned to lead into other ramps andcorridors. That was the way all public buildings were designed. Itwas forbidden for the government to make any law-abiding individualthink the way it wanted him to think. But it could move him in anydirection it chose, and sometimes that served its purpose as well asthe reorientation machines.
So the corridors he passed through were in constant eddying movement,with a variety of individuals bent on a variety of objectives. For themost part, they were of Low Echelon status, though occasionally anUpper Echelon flashed his peremptory way past. Even though most L-Esattempted to ape the U-E dress and manner, you could always tell thedifference. You could tell the difference among the different levels ofL-E, too—and there was no mistaking the Unemployables in their sobergray habits, devoid of ornament. It was, Clarey sometimes thought whenguilt feelings bothered him, the most esthetic of costumes.
The machine in Room 33 extracted whatever information it was set toreceive, then spewed Clarey out and sent him on his way to Rooms 34,35, and 36, where other machines repeated the same process. Room 37proved to be that rare thing in the hierarchy of rooms—a destination.There was a human Employment Commissioner in it, splendidly garbed incrimson silvet and alexandrites—very Upper Echelon, indeed. He wore agold mask, a common practice with celebrities who were afraid of beingoverwhelmed by their admirers, an even more common practice with U-Enon-celebrities who enjoyed the thrill of distinguished anonymity.
The